


Paradise City

by J_Q



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: 1970s, 1980s, Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, Endgame of course, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Pining Ian Gallagher, Rock Star Mickey, Slow Burn, drinking/swearing/etc, loosely based on movie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2018-10-01
Packaged: 2019-07-10 01:45:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 62,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15939212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/J_Q/pseuds/J_Q
Summary: How do you get over your teenage crush when he grows up to become a rock star?





	1. Preview

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kenekila](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Kenekila).



The record-breaking heat wave that hit Chicago in the summer of 1972 had nothing on the heat wave that hit Ian Gallagher the first time he saw Mickey Milkovich. That burning teenage crush became the love that would shape his life. For better or for worse. Mickey Milkovich was getting out of the South Side even if it meant in the backseat of a cop car, then he was heading to LA to play his guitar without anyone around to get in his face.

When _Rolling Stone_ magazine hands Ian a career changing interview with the legendary rock star, Mickey Jaxx, years later, they get a second chance. This time in Paradise City.

 

 **All the incredible artwork in this story was created by Ashja at GallavichArt @[https://ashjashakti.tumblr.com](https://ashjashakti.tumblr.com/)**  

 

Originally written for Gallavich Week 2018, this story was inspired by the beautifully ridiculous Stacee Jaxx storyline in the movie _Rock of Ages_ at the request of Kenekila.

 


	2. Heartbreaker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PART 1: HEARTBREAKER (CHAPTERS 2-6)
> 
> "You're the right kind of sinner to release my inner fantasy" -- Pat Benatar

Artwork created by Ashja at GallavichArt @ https://ashjashakti.tumblr.com


	3. Summer 1972

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian, age 12, experiences the best five seconds of his life.

A Chicago summer heat wave was like a heavy comforter that Ian Gallagher wanted to kick off in frustration, but the radio host on WeFM this morning said the heat wasn’t breaking anytime soon and that people were starting to lose their shit all over the city. He could confirm that after he and his siblings watched his sister, Fi, throw a pot of noodles at her on again, off again boyfriend Jimmy.

That’s how Ian found himself trailing after his older brother to his senior league baseball game hoping for a distraction from the bitchiness that the high temperatures seem to bring out in everyone.

Their sneakers were sticking to the freshly tarred asphalt as they made their way toward the fence surrounding the brand new Metcalfe Park. Ian’s whole life, he’d walked past the old coal yard, garbage piled everywhere, never believing that the city would turn it into a softball field then set up free league baseball games.

At 14, Lip was playing ball in the level above Ian, even though Ian could run circles around his brother on the diamond. He was punching his fist into his stiff baseball glove, and Ian watched that for a second before snickering. Lip was definitely not an athlete. In fact, he claimed the only time he’d ever run was when he was being chased by the cops.

Losing interest quickly with his new glove, Lip expertly tapped a smoke from his pack with one hand then flipped it into his mouth before flicking open his silver Zippo.

“Gimme a smoke,” Ian wheedled wanting to try that move himself. “Something to do while you play.”

“Get a job and buy your own. You're almost fucking 13, man,” Lip said looking across the field at the players starting to arrive. "I was already--"

“Just one," Ian cut him off before he could get up on his soapbox. "I’ll tell Fi that I’m doing kitchen duty tonight.” He wasn’t planning to tell his sister any such thing, knowing she’d get frustrated and take care of the dishes herself.

“Fine. You’re an annoying little prick who won’t shut up anyway.”

Ian took his unlit smoke to the metal bleachers, which burned his ass through his cut-offs the moment he sat down. Rolling it between his fingers, he watched the teams warm up a bit. The money from the city stopped at getting them uniforms, so the field was swarming with 14- and 15-year-old boys, half of them shirtless in the summer heat, but all of them pushing and shoving each other around the diamond while the two coaches got organized.

Except one boy. He was leaning against the dugout boards smoking, impassive and barely registering the tussling around him. Ian absorbed everything about him. The t-shirt that was partially stuffed into the back pocket of his faded jeans, the silky dark hair slightly overgrown, the pale, hairless skin on his chest, the thick, muscled arms that didn’t belong in this league. But it was the way his cigarette sat so casually between his lips as he massaged the leather glove that had Ian enthralled. The haze from the smoke drifted upward causing his eyes to squint a little. When he flicked the butt toward the softball diamond, Ian had a new goal in life: to learn to smoke a cigarette exactly like that. He’d been watching Lip the last few years and had thought his brother was pretty bad-ass with a smoke, but Ian’s views on that had now changed.

From his spot in the right field bleachers, Ian could hear the coaches call the teams in, giving direction and reminding them of the one basic rule: no fighting. As Ian watched them spread out into the field and enter the dugout, he lit his one cigarette and let it dangle from his lips, practicing his cool nonchalance, but when the smoke got in his eyes, they started watering, which made him cough a little and pull the cigarette from his lips. The two teen girls beside him giggled as they glanced at him, their long, straight hair fanning out around their bare shoulders when they looked away. But Ian barely noticed because the dark-haired boy was jogging out to right field, a cap pulled low over his eyes.

The first inning produced nothing of real interest for Ian other than an afternoon sun that wanted to melt the freckles off his skin. Neither Lip nor the dark-haired boy saw any action on the field and neither made it to bat. The girls beside him had jumped up to clap and call out encouragement to the players despite what Ian concluded was shitty ball playing. He wanted to tell them to sit down and stop flailing about but figured the players probably liked to see girls in halter tops and short shorts jumping around. He knew Lip did, which come to think of it was probably why his brother agreed to join the league.

Part way through the third inning though, Ian stood up, squinting his eyes in excitement. The batter sent a shallow fly ball to right field; the brunet watched it disinterestedly for a couple of seconds then sprinted toward the infield catching the ball easily in his gloved hand. When he pulled his arm back to lob the ball at the pitcher, Ian felt his eyes triple in size. Everything about the movement from the way his arm flexed to the way his abs tightened to the way his jeans rode down his hips made Ian really uncomfortable, and he dropped back down to his seat in mortification, eyes darting nervously around him to see if anyone noticed. But the moment appeared to be monumental only to him.

Shifting in his seat awkwardly trying to ignore what was happening in his body, he willed himself not to jump down from the bleachers and run all the way home. The thing was that even though Ian knew about sex from his brother who talked about little else and his mostly absentee parents who didn’t believe in doors, he wasn’t prepared for what just happened to him. All the stuff he’d associated with sex was jumbled up in his mind with the guy in right field and it scared the shit out of him.

The team was called in for the switch, and Ian followed the motion of every boy on the field except the one he wanted to watch. He was petrified to look at him again. But it was impossible not to look when he stalked his way toward the batter’s box, holding the bat like a weapon and aggressively pushing through the other players, who stepped aside for him. Every movement imprinting itself on Ian.

Tapping the wood against his dirty sneaker, he stared down the pitcher for a solid minute before digging his feet into the dirt and swinging the bat up into position. After only a single pitch, he sent the ball into outfield, running easily past first base. The girls beside Ian jumped up and started chanting “Mickey” and Ian felt his heartbeat pumping fire into his cheeks.

Mickey.

Ian knew without having the words to understand that his life was like the ball that just met Mickey’s bat. Whatever direction he had been headed before this baseball game, he was headed in a totally different direction now.

At the same instance that Mickey’s foot hit the second base bag, the baseman caught the ball. Ian bit his bottom lip in apprehension as the second baseman brought his glove toward the runner, aggressively pushing the leather into his bare chest.

One of the coaches, acting as ump, formed a fist with his hand, giving it a quick, sharp blow signalling the runner was out, but Mickey wasn’t moving. He got his chest up against the second baseman’s when he tried to shove him off the bag. Before the coach could arrive and pry them apart, the baseman shoved him a second time, which was his mistake. Mickey grabbed the other player by his shirt front, lifting him off the ground slightly then tossing him backwards. As the kid’s ass hit the grass, the coach arrived and tried to forcibly remove Mickey from second base, but he shoved the man’s hands off him while puffing out his chest in challenge. They stared at each other while the whole field watched.

Ian found himself standing again, watching so closely that he might have been holding his breath. Everything about this interaction was mesmerizing. He’d seen plenty of fights and shit go down on fields all over the South Side, but this was different. He wasn’t sure how, but he knew that this was about more than just power. It was about letting the world know you weren’t gonna take any shit.

After what felt to Ian like an eternity, Mickey smiled, a sly, self-satisfied tilt of the lips, then he unzipped his jeans, pulled out his penis and shot a stream of piss at the second base bag. The whole thing only lasted about five seconds before he was zipped up and swaggering off the field, bird finger held high. But, for Ian, it was the best five seconds of his life.


	4. Summer 1975

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian, age 15, still can't smoke a cigarette like Mickey.

“Whose Kawasaki is that?” Ian paused on the sidewalk outside the Milkovich house, looking at the motorcycle parked along the curb. He nudged his newly prescribed glasses back up the bridge of his nose looking closer. The maroon paint on the fuel tank had paint chips like it’d wiped out a time or two, and the chrome on the exhaust pipe had scuffing from the heel of a boot, while the leather seat looked like it had handled an ass or two.

 “My brother’s,” Mandy replied, her fingers snagged the collar of his t-shirt pulling him toward the porch stairs leading to their front door. He’d been hanging out with Mandy for a few months now, ever since they’d partnered for a science project, and Ian had dragged her aboard the school newspaper with him.

“Your brother? The one in juvie?”

“Overcrowding, so his ass is out. And he better keep it out cause he just turned 18.”

“What was he in for?” Ian asked following her through the front door.

“Family business,” she pointed at the sofa for him to have a seat while she headed toward the kitchen. “Selling drugs.”

“Why aren’t you selling them then?” He looked around the living room and kitchen area but didn’t see this brother. “Aren’t you part of the family?”

“I’m too fucking smart for that shit. I told Mickey when he got sent away last time that he should let me do the thinking for him, but he obviously went a different route.”

Ian had stopped listening when she’d said her brother’s name. A memory, technically his favorite memory, flashed through his mind. Could it be the same Mickey? The age was right. Getting out of juvie sounded like something that his Mickey would be doing, so did riding a motorcycle.

He suddenly wanted to search every room in the house to find out if there was more than one Mickey on the South Side of Chicago.

The idea of finding him had Ian nearly suffocating on the hot, humid air. Apparently, three years wasn’t long enough to dull the physical reaction that he had to the dark-haired baseball player. Over those years, the way he’d thought about him had changed; the terrified awe that got his heart rate revved up softened to more of a secret place where his mind could go when he needed an escape.

He’d always just assumed that seeing him had been a one-time experience, which was fine because it felt too intense to be something he’d have to deal with on a regular basis. But now that he was facing the possibility of seeing him again, the terrified awe was back and trying to override every other thought in his head.

Mandy sat down beside him on the sofa. Two ice cold glasses of Kool-Aid now on the coffee table, condensation already forming on them from the stifling heat. Ian watched her tuck a strand of long, dark hair behind her ear then smile when she caught him watching, her blue eyes crinkling at him. Fuck. It had to be the same Mickey. How had he not noticed the similarities between them?

“Should we get to it? What’s this week’s article about?” she asked, her bare feet nudging the side of Ian’s thigh. “Did you convince Dickhead to let you do more interviews?”

Ian snapped out of his thoughts. “No, but I’m going to do them anyway. He’ll never notice until it’s too late.”

“It’s his last year as editor anyway. He’ll be gone next year, and you should apply for the job.”

Ian nodded slowly. “Only if you promise to work on the paper too. We make a good team.”

She just rested her cheek on the back of the sofa and stared at him. After an awkward encounter shortly after they started hanging out, he’d blurted out that he wasn’t into girls that way. She had dropped her arms from around his neck and stared at him, while Ian waited to see if he’d made a big mistake trusting her. He hadn’t ever said the words out loud and wasn’t even really sure why he picked that moment to test them out.

“You look so nerdy with those glasses,” she said, interrupting his thoughts and making Ian touch the dark frames self-consciously. “But in a good way.”

He turned to face her completely, and she reached her finger up to his glasses pushing them gently back into place. Her finger touched his cheek and traced over his cheekbone and down around his jaw. Ian let her, even smiled a little, because it was sweet and gentle, and he felt the same regretful longing that he could see on her face. That the two of them had missed a chance at something.

“I like looking at you,” she whispered. He tucked the loose strand of hair back behind her ear, as a dark-haired guy entered the living room wearing a tight blue tank top and carrying a 20-pound dumbbell. Without even glancing at them, he flipped the knob on the radio, the driving sounds of Bad Company’s _Feel Like Makin’ Love_ filled the room.

For a blissful moment, Ian had forgotten about Mandy’s brother, but now he could only stare at the guy’s bicep as the weight curled upward toward it making the muscle flex and tighten. The bicep belonged to the same Mickey, only this one was older, fuller, tougher. He looked, to Ian, more like a man than the boy from his memory. But Ian still felt like that awkward boy, all breathless, wild intensity. The difference this time, though, was that he knew what he was feeling, and he knew why.

Picking up the glass of cherry Kool-Aid, he considered pouring it over his head as the lead singer from Bad Company kept repeating what he felt like doing, and the sweat that was starting to form along Mickey’s spine soaked into his tank top.

He tried to decipher whatever Mandy was saying and not panic when Mickey pulled the tank top over his head tossing it dangerously close to Ian, who wanted desperately to grab it off the arm of the sofa while it still contained some of the body heat. His heart was pumping blood so fast through his body that the zipper on his jeans was starting to cause him physical discomfort.

“Hello? Earth to Ian.” Mandy looked up at Ian with a frown.

“What?”

Mickey had dropped the weight to the floor and was staring out the window, one hand pressed against the glass. The cigarette he’d just lit slipped between his lips, and he sucked hard on it then dropped his arm to his side as a swirl of smoke escaped from his nostrils. After three years of trying, Ian still couldn’t love a cigarette like Mickey could.

Ian shifted his hips feeling the rub of cotton in a particularly sensitive area and pressed his lips together to hold back all the noises he was afraid he might make. Mandy narrowed her eyes as she looked at her brother, and Ian helplessly followed her gaze, letting his eyes trace the profile over lashes and lips and throat.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Mandy hissed under her breath. “Oh my god!”

“What?” he sputtered avoiding her eyes, focussed instead on a light sprinkling of dark hair on Mickey’s lower abdomen.

“Don’t what me, idiot,” she whispered. “He’ll fuckin’ kill you.”

“I don’t—” he started, trying to convince her that he didn’t have a hard-on for her brother.

“Just stop. That,” she said pointing at her brother, who had moved to the fridge for a bottle of beer, “is nothing but trouble. You hear me, Ian? Capital T trouble.”

That trouble returned to the living room and jabbed the end of his lighter against the bottle cap popping open a beer. The cap sailing across the room. As Mickey made his way back toward his bedroom, all Mandy’s warnings buzzed in Ian’s head along with his own thought that Mandy’s brother didn’t even know he existed.

But all thoughts were cut off when Mickey returned to the living room and stopped almost directly in front of Ian, putting him eye level with—Ian couldn’t think of a word that wouldn’t end embarrassingly for him.

“My shirt?”

The sound of Mickey’s voice filled all the empty space in Ian’s brain. It was gruff and short but softer than he would have expected. Mickey’s arms crossed over his chest impatiently, and Ian glanced at the light blue material on the arm of the sofa to find his own hand covering it. His fingers tightened convulsively once he his brain knew what it was touching.

Reluctantly, he handed it over.

“Thanks, kid.”

Kid! Kid? Mortified, he just nodded at Mickey’s retreating back.

They finished outlining a plan for the article, with the rhythmic sounds of an acoustic electric guitar coming from the end of the hallway. Ian made notes while enduring thoughts of a shirtless Mickey plucking away on his six string. He guzzled his Kool-Aid with images of Mickey standing in his room, a smoke between his lips, fingers flying over the strings. He chewed the end of his pencil with thoughts of him laying back on his bed propped up by pillows, playing softly for Ian.

Before leaving the Milkovich house that day, Ian made his way toward the music planning to use the toilet and get out of there. As he passed Mickey’s room though, he couldn’t stop himself from looking at the man sitting on the edge of his bed. Ian’s movement must have caught his attention, and their eyes met, for the first time. During those few seconds, Ian discovered that they were as blue as the guitar in his hands and as sad as anything he’d ever seen.


	5. Summer 1976

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian, age 16, tries to engage in human-like behavior and talk to Mickey.

Even though Ian practically stalked Mandy over the next year in his transparent attempts to be anywhere near her older brother, she had instituted a ‘No Mickey’ rule where Ian was concerned, so he’d only managed to catch glimpses of him.

He’d see him roll up to the curb in front of the Milkovich house on his Kawasaki like Ian’s teenage fantasy come true, strong thighs gripping the leather seat, denim pulled tight across his ass as he shifted his weight to engage the kickstand before swinging a leg over the bike and sticking a smoke in his mouth. Everything about it spoke to the side of Ian that he always kept tightly controlled, afraid of what would happen if he released it.

By that summer, Ian had gotten the job that Lip kept insisting he get so he could repay him for all the smokes he’d bummed over the years, and it was at the corner store where he worked that he had his next significant encounter with Mickey. He was getting ready to close when the front door jangled, and he looked up from counting the coins in the register to see a leather jacket, bad attitude and guitar case enter and head toward the beer cooler at the back of the store.

Ian was frozen in shock, the coins in his hand gripped so tightly that sweat was starting to accumulate. Hearing the cooler door bang shut, he panicked, eyes darting around looking for something that could save him, but a hole in the ground didn’t open up and swallow him, so he was going to have to engage in human-like behavior with Mickey Milkovich.  For a second, Ian couldn’t remember how humans behaved, things like breathing and speaking seemed impossibly difficult, so how was he going to ring up a sale and ask if he wanted a bag?

But before he could really prepare himself, Mickey was at the counter with a six pack of Old Milwaukee and a couple of  Hot Rods. The knuckles on his right hand were bloodied and raw, and the sight shocked Ian. When he flicked his eyes to Mickey’s face, he saw a split lip and swollen cheekbone. In a world where Ian didn’t have to hold in every impulse that coiled in his body, he’d be allowed to kiss the tender spot below his eye and along his lower lip.

Without looking up from the crumpled bills he’d pulled from the front pocket of his jeans, Mickey barked out a command for a pack of Marlboros. Ian turned around for the pack of smokes taking a deep breath to fortify himself and making a plan to mention that he was Mandy’s friend and maybe start a conversation, but that never happened. The front door of the store opened, the bell announcing the arrival of what Ian assumed were two of Mickey’s older brothers.

“Dad is gonna kill you, Mick,” the shorter of the two said.

“What else is fuckin’ new?” Mickey said to himself, tossing a ten-dollar bill on the counter.

“You paying for shit now?” The guy smirked at his brother and ignored Ian completely. “You trying to piss the old man off even more?”

“Can I do one fucking thing without someone breathing down my neck?” Mickey asked the question while fishing a lighter from his jacket pocket and using it to open one of the beer bottles.

“Did you fuck up the deal?”

“Didn’t fuck anything up, asshole.” He shot his brother a middle finger without looking away from his beer.

“That’s not what he thinks.”

Still standing directly in front of Ian, Mickey tipped the bottle swallowing half the contents in one smooth motion, his throat exposed to Ian’s view. Swiping his lip with the back of his hand, he flinched when it reopened the cut on his bottom lip, and a drop of blood pooled before his tongue slipped out and massaged the spot. Ian added that to the list of things he would be able to do in his alternate universe, get his tongue on Mickey Milkovich’s throat and mouth.

“Might be a good idea, Mick, to not come home until shit calms down.”

Mickey just shrugged. “Whatever.”

“Where you gonna stay this time? We’ll swing by tomorrow and let you know what’s goin’ on.”

“Old warehouse.”

“On 43rd?”

Tossing Ian the wrap from the newly opened pack of smokes, Mickey flicked his hand at his brothers in what Ian assumed was the affirmative. His brothers left, and before he followed them out, Mickey spat, “Fuckin’ fathers.” Ian couldn’t agree more as his was currently passed out in the alley behind the store.

Stuffing the smokes and Hot Rods into his pocket, Mickey looped his fingers through the cardboard holder of the six pack, leaving one empty beer bottle next to the money Ian hadn’t touched. As he moved away, he muttered angrily under his breath, “Just wanna be fuckin’ free.”

The bell jangling was the only response he got.

 

 

The interaction with Mickey left Ian unsettled and kicking himself. He’d let an opportunity slip through his fingers, and he knew they only came around about once a year. Fuck, he wished he could go back in time and stop Mickey from leaving. How though? What did he have to offer? A place to stay. He could see if Mickey wanted to stay at his house until he was able to go home. If he thought Ian was a weirdo pervert or something, he could get Mickey to talk to Mandy who would definitely vouch for his weirdo pervert status where her brother was concerned.

As he locked the front door of the store and exited into the chilly evening, he figured he could at least pass by the abandoned warehouse on 43rd and see what he could see. Even if Mickey was there, it was doubtful that Ian would be able to get the invitation to sleep at his place out of his mouth, partly because he seemed unable to speak when he was around and partly because he couldn’t deal with the idea of Mickey sleeping in a location anywhere in the same vicinity as Ian.

It was just after midnight, so the neighborhood was illuminated by street lights and, even though it was completely deserted, he had his switchblade ready in case trouble found him. He’d started lifting weights after last year’s encounter with Mickey, in case their paths crossed. Ian may have only been coming up to his 17th birthday, but he was tall and broad—with slightly curling red hair, persistent freckles and dark rimmed glasses. Not usually the kind of combination to leave a trail of broken hearts, he chided himself.

Fifteen minutes later, the three stories of graffiti covered concrete came into view. A chain link fence was falling down around it, keeping nobody out. Ian stopped at the corner and surveyed the building, wondering if Mickey was really going to spend the whole night in a darkened, condemned pile of rubble. It looked like a miserable way to pass the time even if the moon was full and the weather was mild.

Deciding he’d come this far and might as well see this insane plan through to the end, he squeezed between two rusted sections of chain link and over a patch of weeds. The windows in the place had long since busted and a side door was swinging open like an invitation to enter. Ian stepped through into a dark stairwell. Unsure what he was going to find if he started up the stairs, he stood a moment letting his eyes adjust.  

His ears picked up music in the distance. Cocking his head, he listened to what sounded like guitar notes from one of the upper levels. It had to be Mickey; he’d had his guitar with him at the store. Ian took the stairs two at a time until he reached the third-floor landing where the music was strong and clear. A cinderblock was jammed between the commercial steel door and the frame giving Ian enough of an opening to view the open space. Silver light from the moon cut across the dirty concrete floor and the slightly crumbling walls. It also lit up the man seated on the floor, his back against the chipped yellow paint of a window sill and his legs crossed in front of him.

Ian stepped back into the shadowed corner of the stairwell afraid now to be seen. Mickey was strumming at the same blue acoustic guitar Ian had seen him play last year. He didn’t recognize the song and, while Ian watched, he looped back to the melody, plucking at the same high notes again and again like he was searching for what should come next.

The guitar sat in his lap, a black leather strap looped over his shoulder and three empty beer bottles lined up beside him. His attention was fully on his fingers as they strummed now over the lower strings, the tilt of his head preventing Ian from seeing his face. But he had it all memorized anyway. The angry eyes and bruised skin and swollen lip.

Ian slid slowly to the floor, mirroring Mickey’s position, and listened. Reluctant to interfere. He stayed there all night, the concrete uncomfortable as his body stiffen from lack of movement, but still he sat. The music shifted reflecting whatever Mickey was feeling in the moment, from soulful and smooth to gritty and furious. Sometimes silent as he smoked a cigarette and stared into the distance. Ian was there for it all.

No matter what he did though, Mickey kept coming back to that one song. It sounded like he was trying to get the instrument to do what he wanted, looking for the control to get what he could hear in his head to come out through the six strings. It was so pure and raw that Ian pressed his hand to his abdomen feeling as though he was inside Mickey’s head with him.

Just before the sun started its ascent and Ian got up to leave so he didn’t get caught, Mickey’s voice carried through to Ian startling him after so many hours focusing on the music.

 _Just an urchin livin' under the street_  
_I'm a hard case that's tough to beat_  
_I'm your charity case so buy me something to eat_  
_I'll pay you at another time_  
_Take it to the end of the line_

He could feel the desperation behind those lyrics because they were his experiences too. Growing up with shitty parents in a world that kept kicking you to keep you down, no matter how many times you fought back. He had always fought back and pushed himself to be better, but tonight he felt something tear open, a knowing that somehow none of that would matter if he was with Mickey.

If he was sitting next to him while he strummed his guitar…if they could share a smoke and not feel alone…if he could touch him and feel his heat beside him. If he could belong to him.

He smacked the back of his head, hard, against the stone wall and cursed himself for the idiot he was. Mandy was right, he needed to just fucking stop. Pushing up from the unforgiving cement, he lit a smoke on the way out into the early summer morning. His hand shook a little as he took a long drag of his cigarette, wondering how deep the scar was going to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a link to a version of Paradise City that inspired Mickey's song in this fic: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MHQ6quNjgh0


	6. Summer 1977

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian, age 17, knew he would spend his life wanting Mickey.

Ian had followed Mandy to a house party in their neighborhood. He’d been reluctant to come because the house belonged to Lip’s ex-girlfriend, Karen, who had tried to get into Ian’s pants at her last party, and he wasn’t interested in a repeat of that any time soon. Only the people closest to him knew he was gay, and most people assumed he and Mandy had something going on, so he didn’t have to answer any questions, but it didn’t protect him from unwanted hands down his pants.

Tonight though, Ian had followed Mandy here to make sure that her asshole ex-boyfriend, Kenyatta, didn’t show up and cause her any trouble. She’d laughed at Ian when he’d told her why he was following her, but she’d hung on him all night. He was cool with it because he liked her, and she didn’t have any expectations, but also because it kept Karen away from him.

The lights were dim, music blared from a floor model Magnavox record player, Karen’s mom was wandering around wiping surfaces and making sure everyone took their shoes off but showed no concern for the amount of weed and booze being passed around. Between the two of them, they were polishing off a 2-6 of whiskey, and Ian was probably the only reason Mandy was still standing.

While swaying to some Led Zeppelin in the middle of the living room surrounded by a sea of drunk teenagers, the front door opened and the whole room fell away. The music stopped, the drunken partiers disappeared, all that remained was Ian and Mickey.

“Fuckin’ hell, Ian. Could you be more obvious? No is the answer to that question.” Mandy smacked him in the chest, and suddenly, the room was too loud, too crowded, too much. He tried to pull his gaze away from the front door, where Mickey was taking off his shoes at the frantic request of Karen’s mother. It made Ian smile because he looked annoyed as hell, his face all scrunched up and begging for Ian to kiss it. Or maybe that was the whiskey talking.

“Look at me,” Mandy said placing a palm on each of his cheeks and using her thumbs to adjust his glasses. “I thought you were past this. You’ve done so well the last while, but you look like you’re gonna throw him over your shoulder and take him to your cave.”

Ian closed his eyes. “Why doesn’t he ever see me?” he whispered, and Mandy pulled him in for a hug, telling him with the press of their bodies that she saw him and she understood.

“What I wanna know,” she said releasing him and looking around the room with a Milkovich scowl, “is why the fuck no one ever looks at me like that. Anyway, come on, we’re gonna play a drinking game and take your mind off…” She tilted her head toward her brother who had drifted off to a corner where a group of guys was standing. He watched them pass Mickey some cash.

Mandy settled on a game of caps, so while they tossed beer caps into a couple of empty glasses and took shots when they missed, Mickey sold a lot of weed and took every drink offered to him. Ian was amazed that someone could appear as sober as he did after drinking as many drinks as he had because the whiskey in Ian’s system was starting to severely hamper his thought processes.

When Mandy threw a bottle cap at Ian’s face and announced she was going to pee, Ian decided to head to the backyard for some fresh air and a cigarette. It was late, but the humid summer heat still hung around clinging to his t-shirt and making him feel overheated. His head swam with cheap whiskey and regret that he’d drank so much.

Passing a few other teens smoking and chatting, he finished his smoke as he made his way toward a large elm tree where he could have some privacy. With the rough bark pressing into his spine, he listened to the opening notes of _Killing Me Softly_ carry through the kitchen window. Swaying his hips in time to the music, he closed his eyes concentrating on how accurately the lyrics described his experiences with Mickey. He definitely strummed Ian’s pain and it was killing him. Slowly not softly.

Images of Mickey covered the back of his eyelids like a movie. Out of habit, his body responded to them and out of habit, Ian’s hand pressed against his abdomen just above his jeans, feeling the muscles tighten in response and his hips press forward.

Before he could get too carried away, he opened his eyes to end the thoughts and saw Mickey standing across the yard. Watching him.

The alcohol and sex fueled thoughts blocked all of Ian’s usual fears, and he stared back, expecting Mickey to look away in disinterest. But he didn’t. Instead he leaned back a little into the metal fence behind him and crossed the boot on his left foot over his right. Deliberately.

Ian was momentarily paralyzed, desperate to do the right thing. Either the whiskey was playing tricks on his mind or something was happening between them. Ian didn’t want to fuck it up.

He watched the lit end of Mickey’s smoke turn orange as he inhaled deeply then licked his bottom lip. Once, twice, a third time. Ian’s hips shifted forward in response, and his hand pushed the soft fabric of his t-shirt up his chest. He felt so hot, like a fever was consuming him. The t-shirt was too much. He needed the slight coolness in the evening air to touch the skin on his lower belly, soothing some of the heat but leaving behind goosebumps. His other hand skimmed the top of his jeans.

It all felt surreal, like the moments were slowed down and each spanned a lifetime. He knew he’d be grateful for that when all he had were memories.

Their eyes met and held until Mickey’s slowly moved back down Ian’s body stopping at the front of his jeans. He knew it for what it was, a request for Ian to touch himself. It came as no surprise to Ian that he would be willing to do anything Mickey wanted.

His hand slipped beneath the waistband of his jeans, making Ian inhale and push back into the trunk of the tree for support. He felt a little lightheaded knowing Mickey could see his hand moving slowly.

“Mickey! Are you hiding from me?” A tall, blonde girl in a halter top, mini skirt and platform shoes stumbled forward until she could get her hands on Mickey’s chest using it to keep her balance.

Ian was assaulted with so many emotions that he wasn’t sure which one to grab. Anger seemed to be the prominent one. He wanted Mickey to push her away, but he only stood there letting her press her ridiculously large chest against his. Her bare leg trying to wedge between his jean clad legs. The bubble of jealousy felt bitter and unwelcome.

But Mickey’s eyes hadn’t strayed from Ian, and Ian’s hand was still partially tucked into his jeans. And Ian was still hard. He lowered his hand a little more experimentally. Mickey bit his bottom lip and let it pop out from between his teeth. Ian shoved his hand all the way down the front of his pants, his chest heaving in response to Mickey’s single nod.

His fingers started to close around his hard-on wanting to please Mickey despite the surroundings, the people, the chick hanging off of him. He could see Mickey wanted it too. The strength of that blue gaze and the feel of his palm rubbing against his skin were nearly Ian’s undoing. He had to close his eyes momentarily to get some control over his beating heart.

When his eyes opened, a tiny smile touch the corners of Mickey’s mouth and Ian’s body tensed in response. He hadn’t imagined his first real sexual experience would be to make himself come in his jeans in the middle of Karen’s backyard while Mickey watched, but it was okay because he was doing it for Mickey.

Until the blonde’s voice cut through the haze again. “Oh, someone’s happy to see me.”

Ian couldn’t see her hand, but he didn’t need to. The thought made him sick, and he twisted away until he was on the other side of the tree trunk. His breath was ragged and tears pressed against his eyes. This was worse than yearning; it was worse than hoping; it was worse than wanting what you couldn’t have. All those things happened in his head, tonight the loss became real.

He stood there for a bit refusing to move or look around the yard. Eventually, he knew he needed to find Mandy or she’d be freaking out. The spot where Mickey had stood was empty, causing relief and pain to spike through Ian’s blood stream, leaving a trail of anger behind. He pulled the switchblade from his pocket and flicked it open, wanting to stab something with it.

The first jab into the tree trunk felt good, so he did it several more times. With each hit, his adrenaline lowered until it left him drained. Even the buzz from the alcohol felt muted. He started to close the switchblade, but noticed that three of the marks he’d made in the tree looked like the letter M.

Of course, they fucking did, he thought. He traced the M with his fingertip trying not to think about what just happened. Resting his forehead against the tree trunk, he wished for this to either end or begin, but to stop holding him in limbo. Figuring he’d make his wish official, he reopened his blade and carved another M into the tree beside the first one. The sight of that caused a tightening in his chest, but he continued. Adding an I and a G then a crude heart.

It was childish and romantic and everything he wanted.

 

 

Ian helped Mandy onto her bed, removing her sandals and pulling the sheet over her bare legs. They’d shut the party down, even though Ian had not been having fun. He just didn’t want to go home and lay in his bed, thinking about where Mickey had gone, what he’d been doing.

He closed Mandy’s bedroom door on his way out and looked down the hall toward her brother’s room. The Kawasaki had been parked on the street when they’d fumbled their way in the front door, causing the usual swell of hope to blossom in Ian’s chest even while he cursed himself as a fool for the thousandth time.

Standing in the darkened hallway, he could hear soft music coming from the open door of Mickey’s bedroom. An image of him sleeping naked in his bed flashed into Ian’s mind, and he leaned back into Mandy’s door, eyes squeezed shut, so tired of wanting this guy. Despite knowing he was just punishing himself, he was going to walk the dozen steps toward Mickey’s room and face whatever consequences were there because he was helpless to do anything else.

As his sneakers squeaked lightly on the hallway floor, the usual bodily reactions to Mickey Milkovich started; this time though he didn’t have the courage that whiskey gave him. Breathing became more of a chore as his heart thudded against his ribcage, his abs tightened around the fluttery feeling in his stomach, and the only coherent thought his brain was able to produce screamed at him to run.

His already dangerously overworked heart punched against his ribs when he saw the door partly ajar and heard the Mick Jagger singing quietly about how not even wild horses had the power to keep him away. Ian was certain that every love song ever written was meant for him.

Moonlight peeked through the slightly open curtains in Mickey’s bedroom giving Ian just enough light to see that he was awake and propped up against his headboard, pillows tucked behind him. It was also enough light for him to see that Mickey was naked, a nearly empty bottle of Jack Daniels in one hand and his erection in the other.

Moonlight reflected off his skin and the heavy sounds of his breathing enveloped Ian. A lifetime of fantasizing couldn’t have prepared him for the sight of Mickey masturbating.

“I see you staring at me all the time,” Mickey said low and kind of throaty, paralyzing Ian. “I was thinking if you’re gonna stand around with your tongue hanging out, might as well put it to good use.”

Like fire on gasoline, the permission behind those words sparked something loose in Ian, and he placed his palm against the wooden door pushing it open more fully. A small smile tipped the corners of Mickey’s mouth and everything below Ian’s belt tightened in response. He desperately wanted to put his tongue to good use, but a little voice kept yapping in his brain that this wasn’t going to end well for him.

“I could use a warm mouth, man. Been awhile.”

Mickey was telling him that he hadn’t let the blonde finish him off earlier tonight, and Ian wondered why. He wanted to think he had something to do with it but figured that was just wishful thinking. Again.

As these thoughts flitted around his brain, his feet were moving slowly toward the bed. Apparently, they had decided on his behalf that Ian would crawl between those bare, muscular thighs and be a warm mouth for Mickey. He could feel moisture creeping into his boxers as he reached the side of Mickey’s bed.

Ian’s eyes travelled up his body, over his chest and parted lips to his closed eyes. The tattoos on his right hand stopped moving and the firm grip he had around himself relaxed as his thumb rubbed over the tip once. He released his hold skimming his fingers over his lower belly, then his blue eyes snapped open and the desire in them hit Ian like a tidal wave pulling him under until he found himself kneeling on the bed.

Tossing his glasses aside, he spread his fingers slowly around the silky skin pulled tight over Mickey’s erection. His eyes were closed again, but Ian could see the tip of his tongue brushing over his lower lip giving Ian a peek into his mind.

Gripping the base, he brought his mouth down until his lips met his fingers. They both made a noise at the connection. All of Ian’s tightly held yearning was released as his lips slid over Mickey, and his tongue explored everything it could reach. It was an act of love that made his first experience more than just a blow job. He gave Mickey more than just his warm mouth.

Ian lowered the zipper of his jeans, so he could get his hand on his own erection, needing some relief from the constant ache of being 17 and infatuated.

The little gasps of breath coming from Mickey’s lips drew Ian’s attention, and he caught Mickey watching. The glance was brief before those blue eyes closed, but Ian was slammed with arousal and affection, which didn’t surprise him. What did surprise him was the feeling of dominance that accompanied it. He wanted Mickey on his stomach spread open, with Ian’s weight pressing him into the mattress.

The urge was so strong that he removed his hand from his jeans, so he could dig his fingers into the firm flesh of Mickey’s thigh, guiding it up and open. Ian moaned himself when he felt fingers digging into his scalp, holding him in place as the hips beneath him started to thrust up. The intensity of those thrusts fed that same fire of dominance in Ian, and he slid his hand around Mickey’s hip, holding it firmly in place. At first, Mickey tried to maintain the pace of his thrusts, but the pressure from Ian’s hand subdued him, and he let Ian’s hand guide him.

Knowing he was doing this to Mickey turned him on in ways he’d yet to experience, bringing him so close to his orgasm that he had to block out what was happening in his mouth and hands. But he wasn’t able to block out the sounds coming from above him. Was he really making Mickey moan like that?

“Aw fuck,” Mickey groaned and tried to pull Ian’s head away by the short red hairs at the back of his neck, but Ian ignored the warning, gripping Mickey’s ass as his back arched and he filled Ian’s mouth.

Eventually, Ian removed his mouth and opened his eyes to find that pink tongue swiping at his lower lip again, and Ian shot up Mickey’s body sucking the tongue into his mouth, the hand on Mickey’s thigh tightening and pulling the leg in toward his waist. Their tongues swirled together, and Ian pressed his throbbing dick against Mickey’s softening one, the material between them the most hated thing in Ian’s life. But it didn’t stop him from rubbing himself until he came with his mouth against Mickey’s.

As the wave of electricity waned, Ian realized where he was and what he was doing, and his eyes opened to find Mickey staring at him. He slowly and awkwardly removed his tongue from the other man’s mouth, moving away enough to properly see him.

“You ever put your fucking tongue in my mouth again and I’ll cut it out.”

Ian could feel heat suffuse his cheeks at those words and the full realization of his situation. He realized that he was still gripping the other man’s thigh so tightly to his side that his fingers were very likely bruising the flesh. He realized that his underwear had ridden down enough that when he’d come it had shot out between them and was now spread over Mickey’s belly. He realized that he was getting another erection thinking about where his body parts were, and because he was still pressed intimately against Mickey, he had to feel it.

“You hoping to cuddle?”

YES! But Ian kept his mouth shut, releasing Mickey’s thigh and lifting himself away. The tone of the question was clear. It was a good-bye.

Ian managed to adjust himself enough to zip up his pants while pushing up to his knees between Mickey’s legs, getting even harder at the idea of being between his legs. Other things he could do from this position tried to push their way into Ian’s brain, but he shut them down out of self-preservation. After awkwardly getting to his feet, he stood at the foot of the bed wondering if he should just leave or say something first.

“Um,” he began. Brilliantly.

“We ain’t a couple, man. No need to worry about my fuckin’ feelings.”

To his shame, Ian felt tears spring to his eyes, and he clamped them shut trying to stop the flow before it became something that Mickey might notice. He backed away from the bed, but as he turned to run out of the room, Mickey spoke again.

“Your glasses?”

Blinking rapidly, Ian returned to the bed avoiding eye contact even though he lived for eye contact with Mickey. Glasses in hand, he made his escape, a quiet “thanks” carried through the dark room behind him.

 

 

A few days later was the last time Ian saw Mickey Milkovich. He was being arrested and shoved into the back seat of a cop car. Ian was walking home from school with Mandy and, as they turned the corner on to her street, the door of the Milkovich house opened and two uniformed cops walked a handcuffed Mickey down the front steps of the porch toward the waiting patrol car. Ian was sure that he’d looked more pissed off that time he didn’t make second base than he did at the idea of being arrested.

Just before they reached the patrol car, the cop gave Mickey’s arm a hard yank and Mickey brought a leather boot down on the guy’s shoe. The impact allowed him to free his arm from the cop’s grasp long enough to turn his body, so he could spit in his face. He was laughing as his own face smacked into the hood of the car, his stubbled cheek pressed against the metal.

As he was pulled away from the hood, his eyes met Ian’s and that tongue made a swipe over his bottom lip, devastating Ian for the final time. They pushed him into the backseat, and Ian wanted to run after the car, yelling that they couldn’t take him way because they’d only just gotten started and needed more time. But Ian had known, always known, that he was going to spend his life wanting Mickey Milkovich.

“Fucked for life,” Mandy whispered beside him.

“What?” Ian thought for a moment she was talking about him. “No, he doesn’t deserve this. He’s--” But his thoughts and feelings were too overwhelming to share. He was afraid if he released them, he’d never get them stuffed back inside again.

He could feel Mandy staring at him, as sympathetic as she could be after watching him fall for her brother over and over again for three years. “You gotta let him go, Ian. He’s just going to continue to break your heart.”

Heartbreaker.

Ian pressed his lips together, refusing to answer as the patrol car pulled away from the curb.

After that day though, Ian took Mandy’s advice and worked hard to forget her brother. He never returned home after his arrest, and Ian assumed that he’d never see him again, so he’d gone to journalism school on a scholarship and even went so far as to date a guy he met on campus. The plan worked well, he was able to forget Mickey as long as he didn’t allow himself to feel anything.

Then the following summer, just as he was about to receive his diploma, Mandy mentioned that her brother was living in Los Angeles. She joked that the city had enough addicts for another drug dealer to make his fortune, but Ian decided LA was where he needed to make his start too.

 


	7. Pour Some Sugar on Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PART 2: POUR SOME SUGAR ON ME (CHAPTERS 7-9)
> 
> "Step inside, walk this way, you and me babe" -- Def Leppard

Artwork created by Ashja at GallavichArt @ https://ashjashakti.tumblr.com


	8. Summer 1988

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian, age 28, can't decide what to wear to an important interview.

All 8 million residents of Los Angeles County appeared to be blocking Ian’s movement on Wilshire Boulevard and showed no interest in getting the hell out of his way. After nearly a decade of this, Chicago’s public transportation system was starting to look appealing, and he still had to deal with Santa Monica Boulevard before reaching home. On a good day, Ian would struggle to not lose his shit between the heat from all the car exhausts around him and the rays from a sun that was desperately trying to fight its way through the persistent smog. Today wasn’t a good day.

He had removed the glass panel from the T-top roof of his Camaro thinking the wind would offer some relief from the heat, but instead he was sitting stagnant surrounded by every other asshole in the city and getting a goddamn sunburn for his troubles. At this rate, he would barely get to his apartment in time to change his clothes and stuff a pizza roll in his mouth.

Stopping at Lou’s gym after work was his mistake, but he’d needed the release he got from punching the shit out of a heavy bag for an hour; he’d needed that one hour out of his day where he wasn’t Ian Gallagher, where he just let himself go.

What he didn’t need, however, was the stress of trying to get to West Hollywood during rush hour. Kicking himself for not planning better, he flicked the radio back on hoping the announcer on Pirate Radio would finally shut up and play some music, that is until the distinctive riff of _Pour Some Sugar on Me_ wailed out of his car speakers, and before he could do anything about it, the silky voice of Ballistic’s lead singer Mickey Jaxx.

_I’m hot, sticky sweet from my head to—_

And Ian snapped the knob on the radio so far to the left he almost broke it off. It was not the time to go down that rabbit hole where the cosmic joke that was his love life inevitably ended up. Always straight back to the same goddamn man.

Sixteen summers he’d had to deal with Mickey fucking Jaxx, or Milkovich. Whatever. No matter where he was or what he did, his life always swung back in the guy’s direction. Like the baseball that first summer, Ian’s momentum put him on a collision course with Mickey, and no other events in his life were able to alter that path. Despite the unrelenting heat and his bitchy mood, he had to admit that initially he had worked hard to stay on that collision course.

Back in high school, he’d looked for him almost every day, then after school, he’d followed him to Los Angeles and stayed to build a life here, in part, because it had kept Mickey within arm’s reach. Ian’s plan had worked out brilliantly. Years of having him within Ian’s reach had produced jack shit.

Until today.  

Today, his editor, Gordon, had called Ian into his office with news he thought should make Ian’s day, not to mention his career. Had any other rock star’s name come out of Gord’s mouth, Ian would be sitting in his Camaro right now with a huge smile on his face.

“Mickey Jaxx’s manager called me today. Apparently, the rock star plans to announce that he’s leaving Ballistic to pursue a solo career,” is what came out of his boss’s mouth. Nothing had come out of Ian’s mouth in response because he still, after ten fucking years, couldn’t get his shit together where the guy was concerned. He was always going to be a teenaged boy dying for his attention.

“What’s interesting about this is that he wants to give one interview about his decision. Only one. And guess which magazine is getting that interview?” was the next thing to come out of Gord’s mouth. Ian remained silent because he was beginning to get a sense of where this was going, and his heart had started thudding against his rib cage. He ignored it because he knew the stupid thing was thudding with hope. It never fucking learned.

“Don’t want to play the guessing game with me, Gallagher?” he laughed and pushed back in his seat resting his hands on his gut. “We do. _Rolling_ fucking _Stone_. We’re going to sell more copy next month than we do all year. Jaxx manages to give his audience just enough that they beg for more.”

Ian stopped himself from commenting on that as well.

“It’s going to be a tough interview. Jaxx has eaten a few reporters alive in his time. I need a reporter who can handle difficult celebrities, get them eating out of his hand, if you will.”

Ian managed to give a nod of agreement, while thinking that the last reporter on earth who should go into this interview hoping to get the rocker to eat out of his hand was Ian “I’d sell my soul to be loved by Mickey Jaxx” Gallagher.

Gord lifted his eyebrows at Ian. “You think you can handle this?”

NO!

“Of course. My track record speaks for itself.” Yes, Ian, your track record speaks for itself all right.

“I agree. After making Alice Cooper cry while talking about his childhood pet, I think you can handle Mickey Jaxx. That’s why you need to be at The Bourbon Room at 6:00 tonight. Ballistic is giving a short concert there, and your interview is set up beforehand, but I want you to stick around for the show, give it some coverage too.”

Ian had listened to the details with an impassive face. In fact, he’d even written some points down in his notebook as Gord spoke, but he had been completely on auto-pilot the rest of the day. If he won his battle with the LA traffic and the California sun, he’d be in the same room as Mickey in a few hours.

 

\----

 

As the pile of rejected outfits grew, Ian’s confidence shrank. He couldn’t see the navy comforter on his bed any longer because the massive wardrobe he’d collected over years of interviewing famous entertainers was discarded carelessly over it. The khakis and button down were too frumpy, the pinstriped suit too formal, the dark wash jeans and sweater too warm, and on it went through ripped jeans, t-shirts, jean jackets, vests and even a goddamn bow tie.

He’d skipped eating to give himself extra time to get dressed, thinking he could use his outfit like a shield. Had Gord given him more than five damn minutes to get ready, Ian would have gone to the mall and gotten himself a suit of fucking armor.

What the hell was wrong with him? He asked his reflection, but the tall, lightly-muscled figure staring back at him from the full-length mirror only frowned at him through his glasses. Maybe he should just go in his underwear; the purple briefs with a contoured pouch held everything in place nicely. He turned a bit checking himself out from behind. Then threw himself backwards on top of all the rejected clothes and stared helplessly at the slowly turning ceiling fan.

Shit! Maybe he couldn’t do this. Maybe he should call in sick or something. No, no, no, you don’t call in sick to an interview with one of the most famous, and notorious, rock stars in the history of rock ‘n roll. Not if you wanted to keep your job and not get blackballed from the entertainment business. Breathing deeply through his nose, he tried to force his body to relax. The latest craze to hit LA was meditation, but for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out how to shut off his constantly turning mind. Imagining the flame of a candle was doing absolutely nothing for his anxiety. He should have tried out those yoga classes too.

Reigning in his wayward mind, he reminded himself—yet again—that he was a seasoned interviewer. The reason his boss picked him to do the interview was his success the last couple of years. People in the music industry were requesting him by name because he could turn an ordinary interview into something memorable. Has-beens were coming out of the woodwork hoping a piece in _Rolling Stone_ written by him would re-ignite their careers, musicians who’d lost fans due to bad behavior sought him out to reframe their poor decisions in a sympathetic light, and now Mickey Jaxx was interested in giving an interview for the first time in forever.

As an entertainment reporter, Ian had followed the singer’s career closely over the years because he was a legend and you’d have to live under a rock where rock ‘n roll didn’t exist to not know about him. Mickey and the other members of his band had literally shot to stardom within months of arriving in LA. They’d gotten in on the ground floor of the 80s hard rock scene and basically helped shape it. Six albums, four world tours, music awards, groupies and screaming fans. Ian got to see it all, from afar.

He had, of course, also followed Mickey’s career for more personal reasons. Every vivid memory Ian had of his shitty teen years in a shitty neighborhood on Chicago’s South Side were connected in some way to Mickey Milkovich, even the ones that had nothing to do with him. As Ian got older and had the benefit of that wisdom, he’d assumed that the teenage crush would start to fade, and he’d be allowed to move on, find a boyfriend and build a life, that kind of thing.

Turning his head toward his night stand, he saw the blinking red light on his answering machine and knew who had left a message, but he didn’t have the heart or the interest to listen to it. This is how he’d spent his time in LA. Meeting someone, going on dates, imagining more, then somehow sabotaging it. While he probably could use a therapist, he didn’t need one to tell him why he behaved like he did. He needed someone to tell him how to stop.

Maybe he should listen to the message and return the call, make plans to meet after he’d finished at The Bourbon Room, or better yet, they could hook up at the bar and watch the concert together. Ian couldn’t have recoiled more at that thought if he’d tried. It felt cheap and wrong to be with someone when you knew you belonged with someone else, when he was who you thought about, who you imagined you were with.

And that was the thing, Ian knew who he belonged with. He’d left his family, lost touch with Mandy, moved across the country because he knew. The problem was that someone didn’t belong with Ian. It was just taking Ian a long time to admit it to himself. He might have had more success if he’d never discovered that Mickey was part of Ballistic.

The summer after he’d arrived in LA, he’d stood in line to get into a Ballistic show at The Bourbon Room because he wanted to start writing freelance for _Rolling Stone,_ and he’d been hearing a lot of good things about the band. They hadn’t been getting much press coverage, so Ian figured discovering a new band could get the editor’s attention.

He’d nearly fainted when he looked up at the stage and saw Mickey Milkovich strutting around like he was born to be in that exact location. It mesmerized Ian because he had always seemed so unreachable, so alone, and here he was fearlessly entertaining a crowd. He was larger than life.

He’d stood in the midst of a screaming wave of fans, letting this new reality sink in, when the song ended and a familiar combination of notes filled The Bourbon Room.

Paradise City.

It was the song Mickey was playing that night in the warehouse, the one Ian sort of felt they’d written together sitting on cold concrete until the sunrise. The song would eventually become Ballistic’s anthem.

That night, Ian handed over the fragments of his 20-year-old heart that hadn’t already belonged to Mickey. Following that concert, Ian’s teenage crush gathered another layer of idolization. Mickey Milkovich became a legitimate rock god, and once again, Ian was like a baseball headed this time for Mickey Jaxx. The past that haunted him, the present he’d worked his ass off to achieve and the future he dreamed about were all merging into one damn interview.

But he was going to throw it all away because he couldn’t be in the same room with the rock star. In fact, he could barely look at pictures of him, usually half dressed and eye fucking the camera. His music videos sent Ian’s blood pressure through the roof. Thinking about the heat the man could give off with one look, Ian’s hand slipped inside the purple briefs, and he immediately travelled back to that party when Mickey’s heat was directed at him and only him. Those eyes, those lips…

Fuck, fuck, fuck. He had to be out the door in half an hour. He didn’t have time for yet another fantasy marathon. Fuck.

He was going to be in the same room with him, talking to him, and presumably Mickey would be talking back to him, their first real conversation followed by a 6-song set with Mickey performing for a packed house. This all meant that Ian was going to spend an entire evening in the same vicinity as the man and watch him strut and swagger his way around the stage, his body slick with sweat and keyed up from the show.

Ian grabbed the fur-lined vest from the pile of clothes beside him and pushed the fuzzy material into his face, so he could scream and not freak out his elderly neighbor. The act released enough tension that he was able to sit up, flinging the ridiculous vest at his stupid reflection.

He had a job to do and he’d do it. But when he looked into his own eyes, he saw fear. Fear that deep down he hoped the sexiest man alive would finally see him and want more than just an interview. 


	9. The Interview

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian tries to keep his clothes on.

The street in front of The Bourbon Room was already crawling with fans even though Mickey Jaxx and Ballistic weren’t scheduled to perform for a couple hours, but it was a rare event for the legendary rock band to be performing in such an intimate venue. Ian suspected that it was all part of the new image he wanted to create of a solo artist getting back to his roots. He’d gotten his start at The Bourbon Room almost a decade ago when Ballistic had opened for Whitesnake, and the crowd had gone wild, literally. The lead singer had set the club on fire with what would become his legendary charisma.

Nobody, in Ian’s extensive experience in the rock world, owned the stage and commanded his audience’s attention like Mickey. It was a combination of awe-inspiring physical endurance, a powerful voice and sex appeal that dripped like the sweat from his body. Following his career as closely as Ian had, he knew that whatever fantasies his fans were having, Mickey Jaxx had lived them. His exploits were famous and well documented by cameras.

The loud, keyed-up concert goers lined up as far as Ian could see were blaring Ballistic songs from their boom boxes, passing around mickeys of Jack Daniels and, by the smell of things, passing around other mind-altering substances. Ian was tempted to ask for a slug and a toke to take the edge off, but he’d never been very good at handling alcohol or weed. God only knew what he’d do if he got buzzed right now.

As he made his way toward the line of muscle-bound bouncers at the front door of The Bourbon Room, he imagined an uninhibited Ian walking into the backstage party room of the club where Mickey Jaxx was currently hanging out. Looking the god of sex and rock ‘n roll in the eye then—he had one clear memory of what an uninhibited Ian would do, what he did do, what he wanted to do again.

That image sent blood rushing to his head, and he tripped over a crack in the sidewalk, stumbling toward one of the bouncers, who caught him by the arm.

With a bright red face and minimal eye contact, he pulled his press pass out of the small, leather messenger bag crossed over his chest and looped the badge around his neck. After confirming his name was on their list, the head bouncer opened the door of The Bourbon Room and Ian stepped inside.

It looked the same. Even the last time he’d been here, the place had had a slightly disreputable air to it, which was part of its charm where rock lovers were concerned. Ian figured between the two levels, the bar had a capacity for over a thousand people, and it was going to be bursting tonight. The stage was center and could be viewed from both levels. Currently, members of Ballistic were setting up equipment on the stage with a group of waitresses hovering around.

Everywhere he looked, the scarred wood walls were covered in framed photos of past performers. Ian scanned the walls knowing that one of those frames held dark-hair he could sink his fingers into, blue eyes he could get lost in, full lips that had almost killed him once.

Ian smacked himself on the forehead to stop the endless loop of carnal thoughts, smiling awkwardly at a bewildered bartender. He knew he was dragging his feet, dreading what was coming but also knowing that if he didn’t arrive in four minutes, he’d be technically late for this interview, and that had the potential to blow up in his face. Mickey’s manager was a world-renowned douchebag and had ruined people for less than being late, so Ian hustled his ass through the labyrinth of hallways and rooms, asking directions once from a waitress who likely had the same star struck look on her face.

A monster of a bodyguard stood outside the double doors to the party room, tattooed arms crossed over his massive chest, disinterested look on his face. As he approached slowly, Ian pressed his fingers to his hair, checking that it hadn’t gotten out of control on his drive here.

He’d worked hard to corral the wayward red curls into a slightly severe side part, hoping that it gave him a strong, confident look unlike the soft, dreamy look that he hair tried to give him. Plus he’d opted for a professional outfit, dark suit jacket, checkered dress shirt, and purple tie, with faded jeans so he didn’t appear too uptight.

With his black rimmed glasses as a protective barrier, he decided the outfit gave him the air of a professional reporter. And that’s what he’d keep telling himself, all night if he had to. He was a professional reporter, damn it.

After eyeing Ian’s press pass, the bodyguard opened the door into the room, and Ian’s heart started beating alarmingly while his mouth went dry as a cotton ball. Because he’d read so many articles and seen so many photos of Ballistic on tour, he knew that on the other side of that door was likely to be the usual party pack of sex, drugs and rock ‘n roll in some form or another.

In the moments before anyone noticed him, Ian scanned the room looking for that long dark hair, those extensive tattoos, the eternal smirk, but the man didn’t appear to be present. A half dozen other people were scattered around the room, mostly girls in varying degrees of undress but no Ballistic members were hanging around.

A few girls sat at the small bar to the left, and two were playing pool in the center of the room. But no Mickey Jaxx, of that Ian was certain. Even if his eyes stopped working, his body would know if the man was in the same room as him because he was certain his body would stop functioning properly.

“ _Rolling Stone_?” A deep voice snapped at him from a table to his right. Ian turned to the voice and met the humorless eyes of Richard Hiney, who lifted his arm to display an over-sized gold watch. “Cutting it close.”

“Yes, sorry. I didn’t want to impose and arrive too early.” No way was he going to admit the real reason he was almost late, or almost a no-show. Instead he opened his bag and pulled out a sharpened pencil and small notepad indicating he was ready.

“Well, you’re here now,” the manager added unnecessarily, but Ian figured the middle-aged slime ball always needed the last word. Without looking directly at the woman to his right, he said, “Go knock on the bathroom door.”

Her large dark eyes shot to one of the doors at the back of the room, but she pressed her clipboard to her chest and adjusted her leopard print skirt as she moved across the room. Ian didn’t envy her job as either Hiney’s assistant or as the person who was about to interrupt whatever the singer was currently doing in the bathroom. And with his reputation anything was possible.

Ian watched her tap lightly and wait. Nothing happened, so she tapped again and added a tentative, “Mr. Jaxx?” As she lifted her hand for a third try, the door opened and she stepped to the side, pressing her back to the wall, the clipboard clutched to her chest. A sultry looking girl exited wearing cut-off jeans and a tank top followed by a petite girl in an oversized t-shirt with Ballistic’s _Hair Trigger_ album printed on it. They made their way toward the sitting area, cuddling together on the sofa.

Ian waited, all pent-up tension, until a third person sauntered out of the bathroom, and the air was sucked out of his chest, while all the blood in his body started pounding through his veins. The slow panther-like swagger wrapped in skin tight black leather was as powerful in flesh and blood as it was on tv, and Ian brought the eraser-end of the pencil to his bottom lip rubbing it slowly over his flesh in time with the other man’s rolling hips.

Ian’s eyes travelled to the exposed skin of his chest where the black shirt was hanging open, lean muscle covered in tattoos from the heart on his chest to the guns along his pelvis. Ian’s tongue circled the end of the pencil as he watched the singer’s fingers covered in thick metal bands disappear inside the fabric of his pants and confidently adjust the contents.

A mostly empty bottle of Jack Daniels made its way to Mickey’s mouth, his head tilting back as the liquor flowed down his throat, and Ian swallowed as he ran the now damp eraser along his own throat, fully aware of the vein throbbing helplessly. For a split second, uninhibited Ian tried to rear his head, but sensible, terrified Ian squashed him back down. That was the only way he was going to get through this—with his clothes on.

“Mickey, my brother,” Richard said, his overly cheerful voice carrying throughout the room, snapping Ian out of his trance. “You have a visitor. From _Rolling Stone_. He’s here to do an interview about you going solo. Give your fans a little of the behind the scenes they crave so much.”

Without any acknowledgment that he heard his manager, Mickey dropped down to the sofa between the two girls who happily made room for him and rested his head along the back of the sofa, muscular thighs opened wide. The girl on his left ran a hand along the thigh stopping before the scene got X-rated. While Mickey appeared not to notice, Ian definitely noticed. His jaw clenched in response.

Richard moved closer, so Ian followed him. “Mickey, time for your interview, big guy.”

Disinterested blue eyes tracked to Richard’s face. “Go away, Dick.” His hand made a brief, half-hearted shooing motion as his eyes landed on Ian for the first time. They slid slowly over Ian’s face and body, both intense and detached. Like he appreciated what he saw but, at the same time, it wasn’t what he was looking for. To emphasize that, he flipped down the sunglasses sitting on his head, shading his eyes and releasing some of the silky dark hair from the black bandana tied around his head.

Ian’s heart wanted to break a little at the dismissal, but his brain told him it was exactly what he should have expected. The guy could get anyone he wanted and probably did. Plus he’d never heard a peep about Mickey being with any guys before or since the night they were together.

Ian wondered, though, if the rock star that the world got to see was real? Who was Mickey Jaxx? Who was Mickey Milkovich? Did the man himself even know anymore? That was the angle Ian longed to take in this interview, but he just wasn’t sure he had the wherewithal to pull it off. In fact, currently, he wasn’t sure he had the wherewithal to make his mouth work. He hadn’t been able to talk to Mickey when he was 16 and he didn’t appear to have mastered the skill at 28.

“Five minutes.”

Ian’s head snapped up at his voice, all world-weary exasperation as though he couldn’t believe that he had to put up with this shit. When Ian only stood staring at him, Mickey lifted his brow above the line of his sunglasses.

Shit, five minutes? He scrambled toward the low-backed chair beside the sofa, dropping his bag at his feet and pulling his tape recorder out. Pushing record, he set it on the oval coffee table and perched on the edge of the seat, quickly removing his jacket because his body temperature had rocketed out of control. The dress shirt was starting to mold to his skin from the moisture building up around his neck and along his spine, and the tie he had agonized over was determined to strangle him.

As he glanced down at the swirling letters on the page of his notebook, he gave himself a stern reminder that he was a professional and would behave like one. Then the pencil slipped from his sweaty fingers and rolled under the coffee table stopping near a scuffed, black boot. Ian’s body temperature went up another couple degree until he was sure his cheeks would combust.

How the hell was he going to pick it up in a manner that appeared professional and confident? He stared at the yellow stick in horror, his eyes lifted slightly so he could look at Mickey through his lashes and see if he noticed the whole pencil incident. He was sucking lightly on his lower lip, a smirk touching the corner of his mouth. Ian dropped his eyes in embarrassment, just in time to see that booted foot tap the pencil, so Ian sort of squat-walked the few steps it took to grab the pencil dying a little inside the whole way.

Mickey lifted his arm to look at a non-existent watch and, as soon as Ian was back in his seat, said, “Starting…now.” He tapped a tattooed finger on his wrist then pretended to show Ian. “Clock’s ticking, man.”

“Right, yes, okay. Um,” Ian tried to get his bearings, looking at his questions one more time then adjusting his glasses with the tip of his finger. “After more than a decade as the lead singer of Ballistic and six platinum albums, what prompted you at this stage of your career to pursue a solo career?”

Ian figured this was a safe opener as the singer must have a pre-approved public statement regarding his decision. One that would merge the need to smooth any ruffled feathers caused by his decision to leave the band but also remain true to the hard edge Mickey Jaxx was famous for.

But instead of a civilized response, he rolled his head along the back of the sofa and released a sound like he was snoring. The empty whiskey bottle dropped into the lap of the groupie who couldn’t seem to keep her hands to herself. Thankfully, this prompted the girl to get up to replenish it, and Ian didn’t have to watch her hands all over Mickey anymore.

“What he means to say,” Richard interrupted speaking over the rude response, “is that as an artist, he must respond to where the creativity takes him, and at this point in his career, the muse needs a more individual sound.”

While Ian made a note of that, he also watched the singer for a reaction, which only came when a full bottle of whiskey was in his hand. That got a wide smile out of him, and Ian wondered what he could do to get that smile directed at him, or more worryingly, what he _would_ do.

Twisting the cap from the whiskey bottle with one finger, Mickey shot the cap across the room. “Four minutes.”

How was this interview going to far off the rails after only one minute? Scrambling for ideas, Ian sputtered out another question, “Do you have some ideas in mind for your first solo album?”

“Maybe you should be interviewing my fuckin’ muse?”

“Oh, do you have an actual muse? Who is it?”

Mickey swatted away the fingers that were tracing small circles on his chest and sat forward so he could pick up the tape recorder from the table in front of him. Bringing it to his lips, he looked straight at Ian, who waited in anticipation for a glimpse into Mickey Jaxx’s mind. “Three minutes.” He laughed humorlessly.

Dropping the recorder back to the table with a clunk, he stood up moving around the coffee table, all hips and attitude until he was standing directly in front of Ian, who was now face to face with the giant metal belt buckle, the famous Ballistic crosshairs logo etched into it. Above the buckle, an alarming amount of soft, tattooed skin. Below the buckle, a bulge that drew Ian like a moth to a flame. He swallowed. Hard.

Slowly, Mickey leaned forward, and Ian fell back against the chair in surprise afraid to make physical contact in case he combusted. Still that body got closer to his face, and Ian pushed back as far as the chair would allow. Body heat, the scent of whiskey and man enveloped him, and he caved. With all his senses lit up, he was gone. His eyes closed, and god help him, he felt his lips part in anticipation.

“My smokes, man.”

The words broke through the sexually-laced fog that threatened to suffocate Ian, and he opened his eyes to see the tight, round backside of Mickey Jaxx as he returned to the now vacant sofa, a Marlboro hanging from his lips. As the pack and lighter hit the coffee table, along with sunglasses and one leather boot, Ian watched closely as Mickey inhaled, and the sight teleported him to a baseball field during a South Chicago heat wave. Exactly what he didn't need. 

The booted foot started tapping impatiently and blue eyes watched him fidget, but before Mickey could utter the words “two minutes” Ian regrouped enough to formulate his own words. “So, um, you were born Mickey Milkovich on the South Side of Chicago, 30 years ago. After a few stints of incarceration, you moved to LA with two friends who would become members of Ballistic.” He glanced up to see if mentioning the South Side brought back any memories of Ian, but his eyes revealed nothing. The hurt that slammed through Ian’s body was familiar, but so much sharper because of the sliver of hope that had sputtered to life.

When a single tattooed finger lifted to indicate that Ian had one minute left, adrenaline surged through Ian’s body. Real panic at the realization that he might actually fuck up this interview, that he might leave with absolutely nothing.

“Some people are saying you’ve lost your edge, your originality. Is this solo album a last-ditch effort to save your career?” he blurted out, eyes directed at the notepad in his hand.

“Woah, woah, woah,” Richard said, placing a hand over the receiver of his big plastic mobile phone. “This interview will end if that is how you talk to Mickey Jaxx,”

“Not up for real questions?” Ian asked dismissing Hiney and focussing on Mickey. He was suddenly fed up with the run-around he was getting. Don’t request a fucking interview if you don’t want a fucking interview, he felt like saying. “Afraid of the truth?”

“Fuck you,” he said without much heat. “You have no idea what it’s like to be Mickey Jaxx.”

“No, I don’t, but I know a little about what it’s like to be Mickey Milkovich.”

That seemed to get his full attention and a fire to ignite in his eyes. “Bullshit.”

The bravado that Ian was riding on waned a little, replaced with fear that identifying himself would lead to more rejection, so he changed course a little. “Does Mickey Milkovich even still exist?” he asked. “Or is he another rock ‘n roll casualty?”

Richard ended his call and moved between them, but Mickey held up his hand, stopping Hiney so Ian could continue.

“What will happen if you realize you can’t get rid of Mickey Jaxx?” he asked then remembered words Mickey had said years ago. “What if you’re never free? Even if you go solo.”

Something subtle changed in the room. Ian wasn’t able to name it, but the man in front of him altered just slightly. Maybe it was his breathing, maybe it was the focus in his angry blue eyes, but he felt like he might be within Ian’s reach. Even just slightly.

“This is your chance to tell me, to tell your fans, what it’s like to be you. The real you.”

Pulling the cigarette from his lips, Mickey tilted his head at Ian, puzzled. Waiting.

“We’d love to meet him,” he whispered, locking eyes with the man not the rock star. He was trapped in them immediately, pulled into Mickey’s orbit by the pain he was allowing Ian to see. “Finally.”

“I’ll answer one question. Truthfully. So you better make it fuckin’ count,” Mickey said with only a trace of the usual arrogance and disdain.

Before Ian could even process that command, the main doors opened and a couple of guys entered. “Hey Mick, we’re all set up. Ready to warm up whenever you are.”

Mickey was still staring at Ian; he didn’t look away when he inhaled a long pull of his smoke or when he exhaled through his nose or when he licked his bottom lip. “Don’t disappoint me.”

He stood up and left the room without looking back, and Ian watched every movement burning them into his memory bank.

The room emptied, and Ian was left alone to deal with the aftermath of what just happened. He knew he should follow everyone to the stage, so he could buff up his piece with some description of Mickey Jaxx warming up. But his head and his heart and his libido needed a breather. Plus he needed to come up with one question that ruled all questions, one question that would gain him access to the superstar’s inner thoughts. One question that wouldn’t disappoint him.

God, Ian wanted to please him, again. Pathetically so.

Stuffing all his items back into his bag and crossing it over his chest, he followed the music.

\--- 

 

_Another place where the faces are so cold  
I drive all night just to get back home_

Ian watched from the shadows as Mickey prowled the stage singing, plucking at an electric guitar, making demands for lighting and sound checks. The waitstaff and bartenders were hanging around drooling over every movement he made. It was mesmerizing, and Ian found himself constantly drawn into the rock ‘n roll fantasy that a magnetic performer was able to weave around his audience.

_I'm a cowboy, on a steel horse I ride  
I'm wanted dead or alive_

Ian sang along under his breath thinking about how much he agreed with those sentiments. That summed up how badly Ian wanted him. The air seemed to pulse around him and Ian pulsed with it. He could feel it even while hiding in the darkened corner of the The Bourbon Room, as the words of the song entered his blood stream, speaking to him intimately and strumming every one of his hopes and fears.

And he wasn’t even in full rock star mode; he was simply singing, testing the quality of the sound system and prepping the band for his intense sound and style. Next time Ian was out here listening, Mickey Jaxx would be performing and that would be the end of Ian.

After a couple of songs, Mickey jumped down from the stage but didn’t make it far before he was lost in a wave of adoration, pulled from one grasping hand to another. He allowed it, even using the felt pen shoved into his hand to sign an assortment of breast sizes.

Ian watched random hands move over his body like it belonged to them, wanting to swat those hands away and protect him from the ridiculously possessive mauling that Mickey was passively allowing to happen. It reminded him of the blonde who was grabbing at him in the backyard at Karen’s party like his body wasn’t his own. He had no say in how it was treated. He was detached from it.

The entourage made its way toward the backstage room, and still Ian hung back unsure of everything at this point and worrying over the question he was going to ask. He had an opportunity that other reporters, and millions of fans, would die for and all he could think about was that almost vulnerable look in Mickey’s eyes. It was going to haunt Ian for the rest of his life, he was sure of that, and he wondered if he’d ever feel that intensity with another human being or if he was going to judge every moment of his life by that shared look.

 

\--- 

 

The burly bodyguard opened the doors to the backroom, but before the space could swarm with people, Mickey placed a hand on the man’s meaty shoulder and leaned into him for a couple of seconds. The bodyguard nodded, and Mickey continued into the room.

The guy positioned his 250 pounds of muscle in front of the doorway and blocked the rest of the group from entering, then pointed a thick finger directly at Ian, “You.”

“Me?” he choked as that deep voice echoed down the hallway toward Ian.

“Yes, you,” Richard said from beside him, waving Ian forward impatiently. “You waiting for an engraved invitation or something?”

Ian forced his feet to move until he was just inside the room, and the doors closed locking him in the room alone with Mickey Jaxx. It felt like a dream and a nightmare. A dream because this was everything he ever wanted. A nightmare because this was everything he ever wanted.

His fingers pressed into the wooden door behind him as he watched the other man lean against the side of the pool table, then light a goddamn cigarette. Just ignore it, Ian commanded himself, look at something else. He tried to look into his eyes, but couldn’t read his expression partly because the sunglasses were back and partly because the arrogant rock star was back.

“Tick tock,” he said, sucking hard on his cigarette then tilting his head back to exhale. Ian swallowed when Mickey swallowed.

Coming forward, Ian dropped his bag and press pass onto the chair, dismissing one by one all the questions he’d considered since Mickey’s offer. As much as he and his readers would like to know who the singer truly admired or whether he actually had a muse, Ian knew those were questions that would disappoint him.

Now they had arrived at some sort of Mexican standoff. Only a few feet of charged air and every one of Ian’s doubts separated them. Mickey was waiting for Ian to make a move, and Ian was waiting for someone to kick him in the ass.

“You gonna be able to get your fuckin’ question out, Red?” he asked.

Ian might as well take his stuff and leave right now if he didn’t get his shit together. When Mickey shook his head in disgust and turned away again, stubbing his smoke in an ashtray, Ian jabbed his glasses back into place and forced words out of his mouth.

“I’m South Side too.”

He wanted to suck those words back into his mouth the second he heard them. Knowing Mickey had no memory of him was the one thing that had the power to wreck Ian, but those damn sunglasses were hiding whatever reaction was currently happening in his blue eyes.

“That ain’t a question,” Mickey said and then he licked his bottom lip. Once. Twice. The third time, the lip slipped between his teeth setting the switch that shut down Ian’s self-control. Every single time because Ian knew it was a tell, like a crack in the hard surface. Mickey could only hide so much of himself, and Ian saw it as a way in, a way to force Mickey to see him, to remember him.

Three long strides got him to the pool table and got Mickey’s attention. A little smile touched his lips like he was amused by Ian’s ballsy move. Placing both hands on the pool table, he lifted himself to sit on its edge waiting for Ian to make his next move.

Ian got directly in front of him and reached for the sunglasses separating him from Mickey Milkovich. Up and over his head the shades went, taking the bandana with them, then falling from Ian’s fingers onto the red felt. He looked into blue eyes, first the right one then the left, determined to get a reaction. At first nothing happened, all he got was that same amusement, like he was watching a child play with an adult toy that he had no idea what to do with.

Ian waited until they made eye contact again then squinted a little as he leaned in closer. Close enough that he could see the dark irises and little lines around his eyes. Close enough to feel warm breath flutter the fine hairs on his cheek. In his entire life, he’d never looked at someone with so much intention, with so little self-preservation.

Blue eyes disappeared briefly behind closed lids, and when they reopened, the sight crushed the rest of Ian’s defenses. It was a combination of arrogant rock legend and desperate South Side kid. That look he knew, he had been that kid himself, and maybe he still was despite his age and success. Maybe that’s the part of him that felt so connected to this man. The part that grew up tough, fighting for every little thing, determined to get out. No matter what it cost.

The puffs of warm breath were hitting his face faster. While those blue eyes watched Ian closely, he watched the rapid rise and fall of Mickey’s bare chest feeling himself start to breathe in sync. “My question is,” he stopped to inhale, “what does Mickey Milkovich want?”

Mickey flinched slightly and pressed his palm into Ian’s chest above his heart, giving it a hard shove, but he pressed his chest firmly against Mickey’s hand refusing to move, then looked down at the pale fingers covered in tattooed obscenities and rings with skulls and weapons engraved in them, all the ways this man used to build a protective barrier around himself.

“What,” Ian asked lowly, wrapping his fingers around the dagger engraved silver ring on his middle finger and pulling if over his knuckle, “does Mickey Milkovich want?” The ring dropped to the table beside the sunglasses. When Ian returned his fingers to the next ring intending to remove it too, Mickey flipped his hand over trapping Ian’s against his chest.

“Stop.”

Ian looked up from where their fingers were touching between them, and the slight flush on his cheeks tore at Ian a little. “I want to see Mickey Milkovich.”

He shook his head at Ian, eyes still on their joined hands. “You see only what you want to see.”

Ian tried to deny those words, not letting himself pause to wonder if there was any truth in them, if Ian did truly know this man. “No, I see—”

“Sex? Your fantasy? You have no fucking idea what you see.”

The harshness of the words and the curled lip cut through Ian’s haze, but he ignored the warning in Mickey’s body language and continued to push. “Then answer the question. Tell me what you want.”

Mickey let go of Ian’s fingers, skimming his hand down Ian’s chest and grazing the front of his jeans before leaning back on his hands. Smiling slightly down at his thighs, he spread them open making room for Ian. “You,” he said meeting Ian’s gaze briefly as his eyes closed and his head tipped back enough to expose his throat. “I want you.”

That submission spoke to everything Ian needed, to dominate Mickey, make him surrender fully until he belonged to him. Mine, he wanted to say as his hand covered Mickey’s throat, the palm constricting his airway, the thumb absorbing his pulse. He held it there for a moment watching Mickey’s lips part as he tried to swallow, then Ian slowly swiped the pad of his thumb across that beautiful lower lip until it met the tip of a moist tongue.

As he contemplated slipping his thumb into Mickey’s mouth, he hooked a finger into the knot of his tie loosening it enough to pull it over his head. It landed somewhere behind him, and he moved his hand to the top button of his dress shirt. Before he could decide what to do with his thumb though, Mickey’s mouth opened wider inviting him in. He pushed inside and felt lips close around it, sucking slightly.

Ian opened his own mouth in response, reliving again their one and only kiss like he had a thousand times since it happened. Wanting more than memories of a kiss, he removed his thumb, so he could grip the back of Mickey’s head and pull him forward, face to face. His fingers twisted into the soft black hair until their eyes met, and Mickey’s thighs tightened around Ian’s hips.

“Mickey,” he whispered, and Mickey leaned into Ian’s lips, softly pressing them together, more a sharing of breath than an actual kiss. It was sexy, but it wasn’t really sexual. It was exactly what Ian had waited half his life for. A connection. That lasted only a few seconds before Mickey’s mouth moved against his.

“I rest my fucking case,” he said quietly.

Ian’s heart stopped beating from the hit. He was the baseball again, only this time it actually felt like Mickey hit him with his bat. “You…are you…you playing me?”

Ian didn’t wait for a response, he stepped back so swiftly that he hit the chair behind him nearly tripping over it. He didn’t know what had just happened, how he’d lost so much of his control—control he kept tightly in check. His chest was half exposed, several buttons opened. His tie was laying on the floor between him and Mickey. He needed to get his shit and leave. Now.

Ian glanced quickly at the pool table. Mickey was laying on it, one arm spread out beside him, a long dagger etched into the skin of his forearm, and a bundle of leather bracelets knotted around his wrist. The other arm was draped over his torso, the tattooed fingers tapping lightly on his abdomen as he spoke. “You know where to find me if you wanna finish this.” Ian could hear the walls come down between them. This time, though, they were reinforced, impenetrable, a fortress. 

With his belongings clasped to his chest, he refused to look back at the pool table. “I’ll only speak to Mickey Milkovich.” Yanking open the door, he muttered under his breath, “Mickey Jaxx can kiss my fucking ass.”

The mountain of a bodyguard stepped out of Ian’s way, chuckling at his red face and sour words. “Charmed your pants off?” At Ian’s shocked look, the guy dropped his eyes down the front of Ian’s shirt to his jeans and Ian’s eyes followed. Not only were several buttons on his shirt undone, so was the button on his jeans. How the hell? Even his clothes were trying to sabotage him.

“Fuck.”

A second chuckle met that sentiment, and Ian fled. He didn’t stop until he reached the bartender who’d looked at him funny when he’d arrived and wasted precious moments of his life daydreaming about that asshole.

“Gimme a shot of tequila,” he said.

“We don’t open for another 15 minutes, man.”

“Tequila,” he repeated, dumping the contents of his messenger bag on the scarred wood bar top. Where the fuck was his wallet? He could feel panic and anger and indignation and a whole host of other shit boiling up to the surface and he wanted to drown it all out. “Please.”

His desperation must have been evident enough because he got his shot, which he sucked back with a grimace, choking a little. God, he couldn’t even get drunk like a normal person.

Locating his wallet, he offered a twenty to the bartender. “Two gin and tonics?” He nodded at Ian, who stuffed everything back into his bag and straightened out his clothes, mumbling the whole time about assholes and answering questions. By the time his gins arrived, he was once again presentable. He took them to a dark corner table and sat down, deciding that he’d call a cab tonight because if he was going to be forced to listen to that man sing for the next hour, he was going to need to be drunk.

The first gin went down too quickly but the buzz soothed him. Turning the little plastic straw in the second drink, he allowed himself one flash of his hand on Mickey’s throat before he shook his head dislodging it. Nope.

He sucked back the second drink in one motion, trying not to spill too much gin and tonic on his dress shirt, while still guzzling enough alcohol to drown out that neck. And lips. Eyes. The feel of his hair in—

Nope. Nope. Nope. More drinks, he thought. Where’d he put his wallet? Stupid thing kept hiding from him. Reaching out for his bag, it fell off the edge of the table instead of meeting up with Ian’s fingers. He cursed a few times and looked at his belongings scattered under the table and the yellow pencil that had rolled to a rest against his loafer. Tears formed in his eyes at the sight, at the reminder, so he picked up the mostly empty glass and sucked on the red straw, slurping loudly.

He’d wasted too much goddamn time on _him_ , as he now planned to think of that dark haired seducer. He was done, finished. A new chapter in his life. The bitterness of the gin hitting his tongue was a perfect match for the bitterness he felt for life in general. This wouldn’t be a new chapter; in fact, it was going to be a whole new book. This last book of his life had a shit ending.

“That motherfucker. This is fucking bullshit.”

Ian moved the straw away from his mouth, looking around for the owner of those words and thinking whoever it was must have just come from talking to Mickey Jaxx. He snickered at his joke then blinked slowly at The Bourbon Room’s owner, Dennis, closing the Employees Only door behind himself. The middle-aged man in tight jeans and a black leather vest lifted the ledge of the bar top, so he could get behind the bar to snag a bottle of whiskey off the top shelf.

Ian’s bartender offered Dennis a shot glass, and Ian decided he also needed another shot of tequila. “Who are we talking about, boss?”

Downing the shot, Dennis ran a hand through his greying biker hair. “Hiney,” he spat, lip curling in disgust.

“Jaxx’s manager?”

“Yeah, the fucker is extorting money from me,” he explained filling a second shot glass. “Says it’ll cost The Bourbon 20 grand for tonight’s show.”

The bartender stopped drying the glass in his hand, so he could focus on his boss. “I thought Jaxx was doing it as a favor to thank you for giving him his start.”

“So did I, but what choice do I have now? You seen the street outside?” he waved the whiskey bottle toward the front doors. Ian followed the motion and felt his head spin a little. “Cops are there trying to keep everyone in line. No way can I cancel.”

Ian found his yellow pencil, intending to make some notes for his article which he needed to submit to Gord this weekend if it was going to make the next edition. The letters were swimming on the page, but he managed to make a note about the twenty grand. Below it, he added a reminder to “get a new life” and, in case he woke up with no memory, he added “stop loving Mickey,” which he underlined several times. His eyes welled up yet again, and he snapped the book shut exchanging it for his wallet, which thank god contained another twenty.


	10. I Wanna Know What Love Is

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PART 3: I WANNA KNOW WHAT LOVE IS (CHAPTERS 10-12)
> 
> "I gotta take a little time, a little time to think things over" -- Foreigner

Artwork created by Ashja at GallavichArt @ https://ashjashakti.tumblr.com


	11. The Article

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey wants a second interview.

The sound of wood hitting the door frame made Mickey flinch. He pressed the heels of his hands cruelly into his eye sockets trying to push thoughts and images out, but they remained no matter how hard he pressed. He needed a smoke. And a drink. And his fucking guitar. He needed to not be in his goddamn body. Or more specifically his head, which was like a haunted fucking house full of scary shit and trap doors and those messed up mirrors that distorted everything.

Jesus, he was losing it. And a crowd of Ballistic fans was waiting for him to give them a show that would take them outside their own minds and lives, and he currently didn’t know if he could get off this fucking pool table. He was tired of thinking about shit, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to think about what just happened. No fucking way.

But who did that fucker think he was? Coming in here and—fucking fuck. He just wouldn’t stop pushing. What do you want? What do you want? What do you fucking want? He had to shut him up. He had to make him leave. He just had to make him stop.

Fucking hell, he was a mess. He needed alcohol and nicotine and a fucking lobotomy. Performing was exactly what he needed. Hard, pounding, all encompassing rock to block out the tornado of emotions threatening to escape. Aware of the loop his mind was now trapped in, he draped his forearm across his eyes when he heard the door open and close quietly.

Joe was manning the entrance and wouldn’t let just anyone in, but Mickey wasn’t in the mood for anyone else’s shit. “Go away,” he growled.

“You gonna lay there all night, boss?” Joe asked coming toward the pool table.

“Is that an option, Joe?” he asked removing his arm because he could deal with Joe’s shit. “Grab my bottle, would ya?”

“You know I can make whatever needs to happen, happen.”

“Yeah, you’re the best thing in my life, man,” he agreed and accepted the bottle of whiskey from his bodyguard.

“You sure? That redhead seemed like he might be taking my spot.”

Mickey watched the sleeves of Joe’s t-shirt strain around the muscles in his arms as he crossed them over his chest, covering the graphic for Ballistic’s _Bulletfproof_ album—a line of spent full metal jacket cartridges.

His favorite album, Mickey thought randomly. Back when he still felt on top of the fucking world, like he was literally bulletproof. He’d escaped the South Side, was making a shit ton of money, people loved him. Sure, he’d made a few sacrifices, possibly a couple of deals with the Devil, but it had all seemed worth it. Now, three albums later, he wondered what had changed. That fucking redhead seemed to think he had the answer for everything, like he knew about those shady deals with the Devil and what exactly they’d cost Mickey.

“I pretty much fucked that up.” He looked up at the pipes and beams in the ceiling, letting himself wonder briefly if he had fucked it up completely and whether he wanted the answer to be yes or no.

Joe chuckled. “Yeah, he looked pissed. You musta really did a number on him.”

“We got some history.”

“Oh?” His already deep voice lowered as he prepared himself for yet another Jaxx escapade. “What kind of history?”

Mickey lifted his head slightly off the table, eyebrows high in challenge. “You wanna hear about me getting head from a guy?” Spectacular fucking head, he thought.

Joe was silent long enough that it got Mickey’s attention. He sat up, swigging healthily from the bottle of whiskey. “Okay, you asked for.”

“I’ve been your bodyguard for six years, Mick. You really think you can shock me?”

Mickey laughed a little. “Fuck. There’s not much to say, man. He was a kid and he had a fucking crush on me.”

“Lemme guess, you were too cool for that?”

“He’s a fucking guy, Joe. And in case you didn’t notice, I’m a fucking guy too,” Mickey spat the sentences at his bodyguard hoping they’d rile him up and give him a target for some of the pent up bullshit he was struggling with.

“You want me to go get him? Make him come back.”

“What?” Mickey scowled, drawing his brows together in disbelief. “What the fuck would I do with him if you did?”

“Apologize?” Joe suggested still serene as fuck. “You know, for being an asshole.”

“Whose side are you on anyway?” Mickey asked slightly hurt that his normally supportive bodyguard was turning on him.

“Yours obviously,” he answered matter-of-factly. “So?”

“So, I need a smoke before I go on stage.” Time to change the goddamn subject. Joe had ninja fucking skills when it came to getting Mickey to do shit he didn’t want to do. They stared at each other, and Mickey pushed his shoulders back in an attempt to regain the power in the conversation.

“Okay, boss,” Joe relented, and much to Mickey’s relief, he moved toward the door. Turning at the last minute, he added, “I’ll get his number, so you can call him later.”

The door closed behind him.

“I’d definitely need a bodyguard,” he groaned.

 

 

 

_I’m hot, sticky sweet, from head to my feet, ya—_

Mickey was moving around the stage letting the music and the crowd fill his senses like it always did. Performing was so all consuming that it was the only time that he wasn’t Mickey Milkovich or even Mickey Jaxx. He was just singing and nobody complained about it.

Sweat covered his half naked body as he milked each song for all he was worth, giving the audience all their old favorites as this was going to be his last show with the band. He crouched down to run his hands along the outstretched ones in front of him, seeing the delirious excitement on each face. As he moved back to the center of the stage, he lifted his arms high pointing the microphone into the crowd encouraging them to shout out the chorus.

And his eyes landed on the redhead, who stood out in the crowd like a sore fucking thumb. He looked really unimpressed and, despite standing stiffly, was being jostled on each side by the frenzied concert goers. The moment he met Mickey’s eyes, he narrowed his own to slits and lifted a tumbler of clear liquid to his lips. He looked as pissed off as Joe seemed to think he was. Shit.

 _Do you take sugar?_ Mickey shouted at the audience throwing his head back. _One lump or two?_

He moved a little more upstage, eyes back on the redhead, until he could lift a foot up onto a speaker giving his hips room to thrust forward freely.

_Get it. Come get it—_

With one more group effort, the song ended on a couple of staccato stabs from the guitars and drums, and more hollering from the audience. Mickey turned away, his mind back on the redhead.

Apologize, Joe had suggested.

Moving toward the wings, he motioned for the stage hand to pass him his Gibson. They had planned to end the show with _Paradise City_ , the song that had put them on the rock n roll map, and the first song that Mickey had written himself, back in Chicago as a teenager. That version had been slower, focussing more on the need to escape and find some kind of paradise than the upbeat, raunchy version that hit the Billboard charts a couple years after he’d written it.

He decided to play his original version for nostalgia’s sake. Glancing at each Ballistic member one by one, he silently thanked them for not putting up much of a fight when he’d told them it was time to call it quits. They’d had an amazing fucking run, but the fire was gone. Not just for him, but for the band as a whole.

They’d been like a family for the last decade, working and travelling and fucking around together. Now they were going in different directions. Mickey tucked that away, where he could deal with it later.

The crowd quieted a little as he started singing, giving the song the angst he’d intended when he’d written it and giving the audience a piece of himself that he’d kept hidden behind the showmanship of glam metal.

 _Just an urchin livin' under the street_  
_I'm a hard case that's tough to beat_  
_I'm your charity case so buy me something to eat_

Once again, he scanned the audience for one specific face, pausing when he found it. His eyes were closed behind his glasses and his lips were parted. It looked like he was somewhere far away, and Mickey wished he could take a picture of the moment, just like he’d wanted a picture of him from ten years ago leaning against a tree, his hand in his jeans and his stupid fucking heart in his eyes.

There were so few moments in Mickey’s life when he felt truly connected to another human being, and they seemed to be dominated by a redhead whom he barely got a chance to know. But it didn’t stop him from being certain he could feel his heart pumping, the blood flowing through his veins.

As he started his guitar solo, he looked down briefly at the blood orange finish of his Gibson guitar and noticed how similar some of the shades of red were to a head of hair he found irresistible. When he looked back up, panic gripped his chest. The spot was empty. The grip tightened until he it started to steal his breath. He focused on the notes, willing his heart to calm down before he ended up on his ass and the whole world thought he was a hopeless drunk.

He wanted to kick himself for getting caught up again in whatever bullshit this was, getting all emotional over some fucking guy. Then the song was over. He looked around The Bourbon Room at all the faces, nodded and walked off the stage. With no clear idea as to what he was doing next, where he’d end up, who he would be once he walked away from Mickey Jaxx.

_What do you want?_

 

 

Two weeks later and a million meetings with accountants and lawyers, and way too many with his obnoxious manager, Mickey was done, in more ways than one. He finally arrived home just as the evening sky was threatening to open up. Joe was in the office and hit the gate, so Mickey didn’t have to pull up to the security box himself.

Leaving his Honda crotch rocket in the driveway next to the ridiculous fucking statue of a boy peeing water into a fountain, he glanced at it, and not for the first time, wondered why the fuck he hadn’t had it removed when he first move in five years ago because now the thing was starting to grow on him, and he figured he'd miss it if it was gone.

He tossed his leather jacket over the banister and headed up stairs to his bedroom to shower and change. One of the benefits of being so busy was that it gave him little time to think, which was exactly how he liked it. But now he was home, restlessly prowling his bedroom naked and slightly damp from his shower. It was too early to crash face first on the king sized bed despite the lure of the 3600 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets that his spoiled ass was now used to sleeping on.

After too many nights on cold concrete or in the backseat of parked cars, he fucking deserved those sheets. He could say the same for most of the shit in this house, the giant ass shower, the well stocked industrial refrigerator, the high tech security system. It was all as far from Mickey Milkovich’s old life as he was able to get.

_What does Mickey Milkovich want?_

He wasn’t going down that path any further, so he headed out to his balcony to light a smoke and enjoy the view of the Hollywood Hills through the softly falling rain. When he’d been looking for his fancy ass house a few years ago, he knew this was the place the minute he’d seen the view from his bedroom. Off in the distance was the famous Hollywood sign, a reminder he’d thought at the time that he’d made it.

So why was he so restless and fucking lost? What kind of asshole pouts when he’s got all this? Dropping his smoke in an empty beer bottle, he closed his eyes and let the slight evening breeze tease his skin. The sensation set his thoughts off in a direction he’d been doing his best to ignore for two weeks.

What was it about the goddamn redhead that got under his skin? He’d managed to shake Mickey up back in Chicago with that fucking kiss, and then he shows up at The Bourbon all grown up, a chiseled version of the sweet kid Mickey remembered. Just like back then, the guy was not part of Mickey’s plan, and it pissed him off that he couldn’t get the face out of his head.

Or get his fucking hands out of his mind. He’d thought a lot about that hand wrapping around Mickey’s throat, squeezing tight enough to constrict his airway. When he’d offered himself to the redhead, it had been partly to prove that everything always came down to sex and power, but he now had to admit it had also been to see if the guy would know what to do with him.

These thoughts were leaving Mickey with enough pent up sexual energy to power a small city and no fucking place to direct it. Women, despite being plentiful, weren’t going to do anything but frustrate him. Men…fuck, even thinking about men in general was fuelling the churning in his groin. Thinking about one in particular was making him almost desperate. Mickey Jaxx desperate for sex, he had to laugh at himself. He could have all the sex he didn’t want and none of the sex he did.

At this point he was super fucking frustrated with jerking himself off to thoughts of the redhead holding him down while yanking off his tie, so just as the rain was stopping, he threw on a pair of jeans and headed out the back patio doors, past the pool toward the separate recording studio. A few lyrics had been haunting his thoughts recently, and then today, while his accountant was droning on about pre-tax money, the melody started humming in his brain. He felt anxious though, creating something new and different for the first time in forever.

The studio was cool and silent. The band had spent a lot of time here, and Mickey bit his lip pushing away those thoughts. The break-up was something he, and they, needed to do. It was just going to take some time to get used to. Time better spent with a beer in his hand, he thought, opening the mini-fridge then jamming the end of his lighter into the bottle cap sending it flying across the room.

Making his way around the sitting area to the arrangement of equipment, he passed over the assorted electric guitars and grabbed his old blue acoustic from the stand. Setting the bottle of beer on one of the wooden speakers, he plucked delicately at a couple of strings paying close attention to the sound. The door opened behind him, breaking his concentration.

Joe came toward him, heavy white envelope in his hand. “Hey boss, special delivery,” he said holding the package out to Mickey. “I’m ordering Chinese in a bit. Want your usual?”

 _Rolling Stone_.

Mickey felt the beer curdle a little in his gut. “Uh, yeah, sure.”

“You good? Want me to stay?” Joe asked nudging his chin at the envelope, and Mickey stared at the gray hairs starting to show in the other man’s goatee. “Mick?”

“No, man. I’m fine for fuck sake. It’s just a stupid article.”

But neither of them believed the words.

“Fine, but I’ll leave this right here, just in case,” he said dropping a piece of scrap paper on the coffee table, “and go get us some food.”

“What’s that?” Mickey asked suspiciously.

“A lifeline.”

Mickey narrowed his eyes at Joe’s retreating back. The guy thought he was Mickey’s nanny, feeding him and sticking his nose in Mickey’s personal shit. In his current state, where everything in his life made him feel something, that was dangerous behavior.

Ignoring the ache in his gut and downing the rest of his beer, he grabbed another before moving to the sofa to find out what his redhead had to say about him. At the last second, he returned to the fridge for two more bottles. Lining them up on the wood coffee table, he shoved his finger into the top of the envelope and ripped it open.

The summer 1989 edition of _Rolling Stone_ fell onto his lap, and his own face stared up at him. His asshole manager, Dick, must have sent them a stock photo because Mickey hadn’t posed for any shots. He vaguely remembered posing for this one a few years ago. He was straddling a metal chair, one arm draped over the chair back with a lit cigarette dangling from the fingers of his _U-UP_ hand; the _FUCK_ hand too racy for the magazine. That hand was hidden behind the chair back and supposedly doing something that needed hiding. He was grinning a little and his famous eyebrows were lifted in what looked like an invitation to join him. Apparently, that wasn’t too racy for the goddamn magazine.

The caption beside his naked chest read: Rock ‘n Roll is a Vicious Game.

He sat back against the sofa cushion and let his head fall along its edge. Why was he so damn nervous to read this article? Hundreds of pieces had been written about him, not always favorably. Plus he already basically knew what the guy thought of him. Could there really be anything surprising inside this edition? One more beer and he’d find out.

With a decent start to his buzz, he felt enough of a loosening in his joints to pick up the magazine and flip through it until a black and white shot of himself caught his eye. This time he was performing in front of a large crowd, _Wanted Dead or Alive_ by the looks of it. He usually pulled a chick up on stage for that one, encouraging her to give him a good feel. The redhead in this shot was certainly using her 30 seconds of fame to maximum effect.

Mickey peered closer at the candid shot, probably closer than he’d ever looked at any of the thousands of photographs taken of him. He was looking for clues as to why this photo was chosen. Had—his eyes travelled to the byline—Ian Gallagher selected the shot? Purposefully? The chick had red hair, which seemed like more than a coincidence, and she was manhandling him like a piece of meat, which prompted a physical response in Mickey. Being manhandled by a redhead was starting to be the driving force in his life, goddamn it.

Grabbing the last of his opened beers, he sat back again with the folded magazine in his free hand, determined to get through this without losing his shit.

_Mickey Jaxx has officially announced that this summer’s concert at The Bourbon Room was the final performance for Ballistic._

A twinge of sadness hit him reading those words all official-like in a magazine. The framed awards and posters around the room captured the last ten years of his life. He’d thought it’d last forever, that fame and money would fill the hole and distract him. For awhile, it kind of did, but now it seemed to be causing the hole to widen.

Skimming over a couple paragraphs about the band’s history, his eyes stopped on a brief mention that the concert was costing The Bourbon Room twenty grand. What the fuck? He frowned, rubbing the base of the beer bottle against his forehead to loosen some of the pressure building up there.

Twenty grand? It seemed pretty fucking unlikely that Gallagher had made this shit up for his article, so where’d he hear about this? Probably at the club that night. Had Dennis told him, hoping the information would get back to Mickey? Did Dennis think Mickey wanted the money?

One other person had the means and opportunity to pull this shit and get away with it. Mickey stared at the sentence again feeling some rage build in his chest at the only possible answer. Dick.

Jesus Christ, every corner of his damn life was a fucking mess. Was he going to have to spend tomorrow firing his piece of shit manager? What other explanation could there be though? It certainly wouldn’t break his heart to see the backside of the guy, but Mickey was in no head space to find himself a new manager.

Well, one point to Ian fucking Gallagher. He certainly seemed to always know how to knock Mickey on his ass. What else you got for me, Gallagher?

_In a one on one interview with the rock legend on the night of the final performance, Jaxx was prompted to share his reason for going solo at this point in his career. Without Ballistic, without the Mickey Jaxx persona, what can fans expect from glam rock’s poster child?_

Mickey felt his shoulders tense up as his eyes moved to the next paragraph. He hadn’t really answered that question and had no idea how Gallagher was going to address it.

 _It seems that the bad boy of rock is going to remain tight lipped about his plans. Despite sharing his deeply held beliefs about following his muse,_ \--Mickey had to smile at this-- _Jaxx seemed more interested in his bottle of whiskey than getting at the truth. Is he just another rocker asleep at the wheel?_

Well, the guy had claws and he seemed to be delighting in raking them over Mickey.

_Surrounding himself with nameless people who flatter him, playing the Hollywood game. Is the celebrity bubble he’s living in how he pictured Paradise City as a kid on the South Side of Chicago? Perhaps there’s a price for fame. Sell your soul to the music industry for a taste of what Mickey Jaxx has until it uses you up and isolates you from who you are._

By the time he got to the end of that paragraph, he was breathing hard as agitation thrummed through his body. He wasn’t used to anyone questioning his fucking existence, poking at his decisions. At least not since he got the hell of Chicago. Now some journalist thought it was his job to expose Mickey as a fraud. A fucking sell out.

_As fans, we worship our idol, but it’s not real. It’s not actually love. Yet, we don’t really know who Mickey Jaxx is because he won’t tell us. Even when we legitimately want to know the real Mickey, not the rock star or the rebel. Just the man. But that would expose the truth and maybe even a beating heart._

What was in his heart was none of anyone’s business. That shit didn’t belong to the world, and he didn’t have to share it with anyone. Ever. Certainly not some uptight fucking reporter who thought he knew what the goddamn truth looked like.

 _Liar_. He ignored that whisper and finished the last few paragraphs about how Mickey’s previous success was slowly slipping through his fingers as he started producing predictable songs.

_But now a decade later, the songs that made us feel emotions in their purest, rawest form, no longer make us feel like we can live forever. Maybe someone should have warned Jaxx that rock ‘n roll is a vicious game._

Glancing down at the cover photo, he supressed the urge to rip the photo into pieces. Mickey Jaxx was his hard shell, and with the end of Ballistic, he’d essentially hung that armour in his closet. That fucking closet was getting full.

Was he brave enough to find out what Mickey Milkovich wanted? What Mickey Milkovich wanted at the moment was another goddamn drink. Something a hell of a lot stronger than beer. Leaning against the small bar and downing a couple shots of Jack, he felt the numbing start, but before he could sigh in relief, his eyes landed on the scrap of paper Joe had left on the coffee table. A lifeline, he’d said. All mysterious and shit. Yeah, well, Mickey knew what the fuck it was. No fucking way was he going to pick it up. Nope. Joe could keep his nose in his own damn business.

By the time these thoughts worked their way through his brain, the scrap of paper was in his hand and the seven digits swam a bit as he focused on them. The alcohol was starting to blur the edges, so he poured himself two more shots. He liked the edges good and fucking blurred.

All he could remember just then was that Gallagher was fucking hot, and Mickey was sure if he tried hard enough, he’d be able to remember how his mouth felt. He’s spent enough goddamn time thinking about it in jail ten years ago. Thinking specifically about his mouth on Mickey’s cock, knowing that somehow this redheaded kid was working on instinct. It had been intoxicating to be consumed with so much fucking enthusiasm. Then he’d kissed Mickey in the exact same way, and that had fucked him up.

It made good damn sense to want your dick sucked by someone who had a fucking knack for it regardless of gender, but it made zero sense to him to physically crave the feel of someone’s tongue in your mouth. And it had set off so many warning bells in his brain that he’d purposely fucked up a drug deal and gotten himself arrested. He knew if he didn’t get out right then, he’d end up that kid’s bitch and fucking love it.

All these years later, it was happening again, except this time the kid was a man and, if Mickey thought he was fucked up then, it had nothing on whatever was happening now.

Slamming one more shot, he set the bottle and glass on the table beside the phone number. He was gonna do it. Make the call and find out what the guy’s problem was. Why he was so fucking pushy. With his stupid questions all up in Mickey’s face.

He just needed a phone. Squinting at the room in general, he stumbled a little on his way to the desk where a cordless phone sat. The room started to tilt a little, and Mickey tried to remember if he’d eaten since breakfast. Maybe he should slow down on the whiskey until the Chinese food arrived.

With the cordless phone firmly in his grasp, he punched in the numbers. It took two tries to get them right—at least he hoped they were right. One ring. Two rings. Maybe they were closed. What the hell time was it anyway? No sun was streaming in through the windows.

“Rolling Stone.”

Rolling Stone? Mickey scrunched up his face in concentration trying to hang on to his train of thought. He wanted to talk to the redhead. Yeah, that was it.

“Hello? Anyone there?”

“Red?” Mickey asked but the voice was too deep, too boring. All wrong for him. Like the fairy tale.

“Pardon?”

“Red riding hood?” Mickey mumbled feeling like something was off. Like it was the wrong fairy tale.

“Red Riding Hood?” the voice on the phone asked.  “Is this a prank caller? That’s the best you can come up with?”

“Is he there?” He was starting to get frustrated. “He wants me to expose myself. To the world.”

“Um, are you a stalker?”

“I need to talk to him. I gotta tell him something.” The open magazine on the sofa caught his eye.

“Who, man?”

“The redhead.” He reached the sofa and the name under the heading jumped out at him, making him smile a little. “Gallagher.”

“Oh, you wanna talk to Ian? Is that why you’re calling?”

“Ian,” Mickey nodded into the phone. “I gotta tell him something.”

“I bet he can’t wait to hear whatever it is you gotta tell him,” the voice chuckled into the line. “I’ll put you through. Hang on, dude.”

The phone started ringing again. Once. Twice.

“Ian speaking.”

“You,” he said.

A long silence followed, and Mickey wondered if he had hung up. “You there?” he asked sitting down heavily on the sofa.

“What do you want?”

“I can answer that question.” He felt triumphant that he was finally able to do so.

“Are you drunk?”

“Um, maybe a bit, but that’s not…I called to answer your question.”

“Fine. So answer it.”

Why did Ian sound so mad if Mickey was able to answer the question? He needed to make him understand. “I want another interview.”

“Call my editor and see if someone is free.”

“What?” Didn’t he get it? “No, an interview with you.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No.”

“But…” he sputtered, almost speechless. “But I’m Mickey Jaxx.”

“Oh, I know exactly who you are. There’s no confusion there.”

“There’s confusion here. You asked me what I wanted.”

“I’m not interested anymore,” Ian said and then cleared his throat. “I’ve—I’ve moved on.”

“But…”

“I’m hanging up now.”

“Wait!”

First a click then a dial tone. He frowned at the little phone screen, unsure what had just happened. The redhead seemed mad at him but figuring it out was hurting Mickey’s head, so he gave up and took his bottle of whiskey outside, trying to remember the last time someone had hung up on him. Probably Mandy. She liked to give him shit.

As he made his way along the darkened path toward the patio, he stumbled into a tall fern nearly tipping the potted plant before reaching the illuminated pool. When he finally stood at the pool’s edge, the water looked so inviting that he dangled his bare toes in the warmth, swirling them over the surface. The enormous crosshairs design engraved in the tiles at the bottom of the pool shone in the blue light.

What would happen if he stepped off the edge? Would he float? It would feel good to be floating, weightless. No longer part of the world. Realizing he had no reason to fight it, he let himself fall. Still holding the bottle of whiskey, the water covered his head as his feet touched the bottom and his lungs expanded.

When they started to burn, he opened his eyes and nearly had a heart attack. Dark eyes stared back at him. He inhaled a lung’s worth of chlorinated water in surprise just as a firm hand gripped his bicep dragging him above the surface.

Sucking in air and coughing up pool water, he grabbed the front of Joe’s t-shirt with his free hand, feeling arms tighten around him. They stared at each other, breathing heavily, water dripping down their faces.

“Jesus, Mick,” Joe panted, kicking his feet. “I can’t leave you alone for a goddamn minute.”

“Relax, man.” He lifted the whiskey bottle above his head triumphantly. His thumb was pressed into the neck of the bottle. “Didn’t spill a drop.”

They’d reached the edge of the pool before Joe appeared to have enough cool to reply. “You think maybe your drinking is becoming a problem?”

Mickey scowled at him. “You my fucking babysitter now?”

“I’m your fucking bodyguard, so basically, yes.” They had arrived at the wide steps, no longer in danger of slipping beneath the surface, but Joe still had one arm around Mickey’s waist.

“Getting’ all handsy there, Joe,” he taunted pushing against well-defined pecs. “You sure you’re not into guys?”

Joe shook his head and pushed Mickey up the stairs. “What are you into? I never see you with any chicks,” he pondered. His wet jeans were riding down his hips, so he tried to pull them up enough to walk properly, but he needed both hands and he was still holding the whiskey bottle.

“Fuck sake,” he pouted dropping down to the closest lounger and sloshing whiskey on his bare abdomen. “Fuck sake,” he repeated. “What a damn waste.” He ran his finger over his skin watching it follow the liquid as it left a trail from his navel to the edge of his jeans, then brought the wet finger to his mouth. “I need someone to lick that up.”

A redhead preferably. One with a warm mouth. “Fuck,” he moaned and a towel hit him in the chest. Joe was standing at the foot of the lounger scowling in disappointment, so Mickey set the whiskey on the ground beside his chair, unzipped his jeans and pushed them over his hips. Joe cracked smile and moved to the paper bag of Chinese food on the patio table.

“Why do I put with you?” he pondered pulling out little boxes and chopsticks.

Mickey got his pants off and covered himself with the towel. “Cause I’m pretty.”

“Eat some damn food.” He shoved a box of cashew chicken into Mickey’s hand.

“When did I get to be such an amateur drinker?” The food smelled good and Mickey tossed the chopsticks aside, gesturing for a fork. He didn’t have the patience—or the coordination—to be dealing with two sticks of wood.

“Well, if that bottle was full when you started, then you’re gonna be hurting tomorrow,” Joe said sitting across from Mickey on an upright chair, his frown returning.

They ate in silence for a few minutes, while Mickey stared at the tiny lit up Hollywood sign in the distance. “Why’d you come to Paradise City? Aren’t you from like Kansas or some shit?”

“It’s a good thing you’re pretty.” But he chuckled. “Wyoming.”

“Wyoming, huh? Why are you here?”

“Probably the same reason as you,” he replied cryptically.

“Trying some reverse psychology on me, man?”

“You wanna talk about it?” Joe asked, still stuffing his face with chow mein noodles.

Feeling some sobriety start to creep in, his cashew chicken lost its appeal, so he set it on the patio table. “What’s there to talk about?”

“Did you call?”

“Yeah and he said he didn’t want to see me. Sounded pretty fucking firm about his decision.”

“Did you say please?” This got Mickey’s attention. Had he?

“I—no I don’t think so. You think that would a helped?”

“Couldn’t hurt.” Joe nudged the box of chicken in Mickey’s direction.

“Do you think I should call back?”

“Couldn’t hurt to show him you’re not a total asshole.”

Mickey stood up, the towel falling to the patio exposing his ass. “You mean this one?” he asked giving Joe a view of one of his best features. He smirked as he returned to the studio for the phone, feeling far more sober than he had his first trip.

A minute later, he was back with the phone and the slip of paper. Sitting on the end of the lounger, he dialed, swallowing dryly when the same voice echoed out of the mouthpiece.

“Rolling Stone.”

He stared at Joe, wondering what he was doing. If Ian didn’t want to talk to him, he should just leave the guy alone.

Mickey whispered, “He hates me.”

Joe whispered back, “He’s just upset.”

“Rolling Stone” the voice repeated impatiently. “Oh, is this Ian’s stalker again?”

“No.”

“Who would you like to talk to then?”

“Ian.”

The guy laughed into the phone. “I think he went home, dude. Wanna leave him a creepy message?”

“Wanna fucking die, asshole. Just put me through to his machine.”

A moment later, Mickey was listening to Ian’s recorded message asking him to leave a brief message.

“Fuck,” he said to himself. “Hi, yeah, Ian. It’s Mickey Ja—Milkovich.” He glanced quickly at Joe, who nodded encouragingly between bites of food. “Would you please come to my place Thursday at 2:00 pm?”

“Address,” Joe prompted him.

“Hollywood Hills East, 2270 Deronda,” he took a deep breath and repeated. “Please.”

Joe took the phone from his death grip and hit the end button. “Very good. You would a won me over with that.”

“Did I sound, you know, fucking sincere?”

“You did, boss.”

 

 

 

Mickey spent the next day regretting drinking while putting out more fires. He started the day firing Dick Hiney’s ass, which on the one hand, felt good. The guy wasn’t named Dick for no reason, and Mickey needed an outlet for some pent up anger. On the other hand though, Dick had been a shark where his music career was concerned, and now Mickey had to deal with all his own shit.

The asshole had tried to weasel his way out by saying that Dennis had misunderstood, so Mickey had called The Bourbon from Hiney’s desk. He hit the speaker button and watched his soon-to-be ex-manager fumble around trying to turn Dennis’s words on him, but Mickey had heard enough. The call ended with him promising another concert later in the month. Dennis was elated, Dick was fired and Mickey was manager-less.

One by one, everything related to Mickey Jaxx was disappearing from his life. He supposed sometimes the universe had to hit you over the head to get your attention.

When he returned to the car waiting in front of Dick’s building, he slid into the front passenger seat. “I guess it’s just you and me, Joe.” He eyed his bodyguard marvelling that he fit behind the wheel. “You finally have me all to yourself.”

“Only until you figure out how to apologize to the redhead,” Joe replied pulling into the Downtown LA traffic. “So I guess we’ll grow old together.”

Mickey actually laughed at loud. “Fuck you, I’m gonna sweep him off his fucking feet.”

If he showed up.


	12. The Second Interview

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey has to make some hard decisions.

Thursday afternoon eventually rolled around with Mickey smoking like a chimney. He went for a soak in the hot tub, he tried to play pool, he bugged Joe every five minutes beginning at noon to check the gate. At 2:10, he was sure that Ian wasn’t going to show up, so he went to the recording studio to play with his guitar and get drunk. Again.

He was plucking away at the instrument, trying between sips of whiskey to bring together the elements of the song that kept haunting his thoughts. It had a different sound from what he was used to working with, some elements of rock but more distorted like a tug a war between gentle and pounding. It was confusing him and working on his frustration level like the ticking clock on the wall.

2:30.

Goddamn it, who’d he think he was anyway? Mickey had said fucking please. Twice! He’d call the fucking owner of _Rolling Stone_ if he had to, make the guy show the fuck up. Then he’d really hate you, Mickey reminded himself.

Another shot of whiskey.

Nursing his hurt feelings with booze might not be the healthiest solution, but it effectively dulled the tightness in his chest and quieted the voices yelling shit in his head. Now if he could just figure out how to stop the fucking clock from ticking.

At 3:00, he decided that Ian fucking Gallagher could kiss his ass.

 

 

 

Mullholland Highway was at a fucking standstill, and once again, every asshole in Los Angeles County was in Ian’s way. Craning his neck to see past the truck in front of him, he gave up. It was probably an idiot on a motorcycle who wanted to show off his non-existent skills on the winding highway.

Ian decided to not fret about the traffic because he wasn’t looking forward to pulling up to some swanky mansion on Deronda Drive and having to deal with the pompous ass who lived there. The last two weeks, he’d managed to move on from the hopeless childhood crush he’d harboured for what felt like a dozen lifetimes.

Okay, maybe, move on was a little strong, but he’d actively worked to not obsess over the guy. Whenever the old thoughts started to invade, he’d relive their encounter at The Bourbon Room, experiencing the humiliation all over again. It was like a bucket of cold water in the face every time.

Then he got a late night phone call. From a drunk pompous ass who couldn’t believe that Ian wasn’t jumping at the chance to hear whatever bullshit he suddenly felt the need to share. Sure, his heart had screamed at him to agree to the second interview, and his brain had tried to convince him that maybe Mickey was calling because he was sorry and had some feelings for Ian.

So Ian had hung up on him.

Clearly, he must be losing his damn mind. He knew his heart was a lost fucking cause, but he had to finally acknowledge that his brain was no longer fully functioning where Mickey was concerned. Ian was sure the call was a response to the article. He was probably bewildered that Ian had written an honest piece instead of kissing his ass.

Finally accelerating as traffic began to move, he muttered to himself, “He can kiss my ass.”

Two could play these games he had decided while getting dressed this morning. His work ethic was already on the line where Mickey Jaxx was concerned. He’d allowed his emotions to leak into the article, he’d hung up on a major fucking celebrity, and he was showing up to an interview in worn jeans and an old yellow t-shirt with a monkey on the front.

Showing up almost an hour late.

Letting the cool wind wash over him as he whizzed down the highway, Ian decided his new fuck you attitude fit better than the soft denim molded to his ass and thighs. Why hadn’t he figured this out sooner?

 

 

 

3:00 pm.

Mickey wanted to throw the half empty bottle of whiskey at the fucking clock that wouldn’t stop its fucking ticking. The thing was mocking him, rubbing the time in his face. Tears pricked at the back of his eyes, and that just pissed him off. He was turning into a fucking pussy, letting every little thing hurt his goddamn feelings.

The problem, he decided, was that none of his vices were currently able to mask the fact that he was miserable. And if alcohol, nicotine or rock couldn’t revive him, then he was at a loss. What the fuck else was there?

Redheads.

Who look at you like they don’t ever want to look anywhere else. Who demanded the truth and expected to see inside your fucking heart. Removing the guitar strap from around his neck, he tugged the hem of his tank top over his head, tilting to see the tattoo on his chest. A dragon devouring his heart.

For years, he thought he’d been successful, that the dragon had finished his meal, but apparently, the organ was still pumping and demanding all of his attention. Currently, it was beating in time with the ticking of the clock, reminding him why he wanted to feed it to a fucking serpent. Because fucking redheads looked at you and made you remember that you had a heart.

The whiskey bottle caught his attention, and as much as he wanted to down the Jack, he picked up his guitar instead. Plugging it into the amp, he closed his eyes and started wailing on the strings, giving all his emotions free reign. Anger, hurt, loneliness, fear.

He was trying to find words to express them when Joe opened the studio door with a redhead trailing behind him. Mickey stopped playing abruptly, staring in disbelief.

“Your 2:00 is here, boss,” Joe said dryly. “I’ll be in the office if you need me.”

“I think you mean my 3:00,” Mickey replied, lifting an eyebrow in challenge.

“You’re lucky I’m here at all.”

So he was still pissed. It looked good on him, Mickey decided. He still had that soft sweetness, but he looked like he wouldn’t mind snapping Mickey in two. That made his mouth a little dry, so he licked his lip to moisten it. “Can I get you something to drink?” he asked deciding he needed one. He returned his guitar to its stand before opening the mini-fridge and grabbing a small bottle of orange juice. Mostly sober was probably the way to go, he figured.

“No. This isn’t a social call.”

“You wanna sit down?” Mickey moved toward the sofa and chair in the center of the room.

“No.”

“Just gonna stand there?”

“Looks like it.”

Fuck you, Mickey wanted to say but he bit his tongue. “Fine. Are you gonna ask me some questions?”

“No.”

Now, he had to bite more than is tongue; his teeth gnawed aggressively at the edges of his bottom lip, his neck stiffened with a frustrating combination of desperation and panic. “Isn’t that how an interview works, man?”

“You tell me.” The aggression rolling off Ian practically filled the room, and the yellow pencil in his hand started to tap against the little notebook in his other hand. A vision of that pencil rolling on the floor and stopping at Mickey’s boot flashed in his mind, along with it a memory of how Ian had looked at him. He wanted that look back. “I see you brought your pencil,” he teased.

Two red spots immediately appeared on Ian’s cheekbones as the pencil stopped tapping. And Mickey realized he’d made a mistake teasing him. He’d found the moment adorable and meant the teasing that way, but a storm was now brewing in those green eyes. Fuck. He sucked at this.

“I just meant…” but he didn’t know what he meant. He also didn’t know how to get from where they currently were to where Mickey wanted them to be. There seemed to be a canyon between them and Mickey had never been good at navigating this shit. “I apologize.”

“For what?” Ian asked making it sound like the list of transgressions was too long to even pinpoint a general location. Mickey’s hackles were rising again like hair on the back of his neck. He was fucking trying here.

“For whatever shit you want me to apologize for.”

“Oh well, in that case, you are totally forgiven.”

Like hell he was. In fact, Ian looked more pissed off than he had at the last interview. He wasn’t looking at Mickey with anything close to affection, and Mickey was feeling desperate. He could think of only one way to get that look back.

 

 

 

Ian’s cool was slipping. It had been such a liberating feeling when he’d pulled up to the gate, watching it open slowly to allow him entrance to the fancy circular driveway. He’d left the Camaro certain that nothing Mickey Milkovich could do would penetrate the ice he’d built around his heart. The intimidating bodyguard from The Bourbon Room had greeted him at the front door, leading him out the back through the pool area to a separate recording studio.

Then he’d stepped inside and all that hard won ice had melted into a puddle. Mickey was sitting on a bar stool, plucking at the old blue guitar from Ian’s fantasies. His chest was bare and his hair was loose around his face.

It was 1978 all over again, but this time Ian wasn’t 17 and he wasn’t going to get played again, so he kept his eyes averted, his answers short and his posture aggressive. It seemed to be working because the temperature of Mickey’s voice dipped with each response. Ian had a fleeting moment where he felt bad about being so unhospitable, but then Mickey brought up the yellow pencil incident and Ian nearly lost it.

He wasn’t even sure what that would have looked like if he’d let himself go with it. Whether he would’ve just walked out or whether he would’ve yelled shit that he would regret later or whether he would have just ripped the rest of Mickey’s clothes off and been done with the whole thing.

But, of course, at that moment Mickey walked toward him, stopping only a couple of feet away, and Ian felt a wave of defeat. He could holdout against his naked chest, his damn guitar, his acid tongue, but not his closeness.

_Please don’t come any closer._

If his pride hadn’t taken so many hits, he might have allowed himself to show a little weakness, but he was rooted to the spot unwilling to back down.

“I guess I’ll have to ask the questions then,” Mickey said, the temperature of his voice hotter than the goddamn California dessert, causing a layer of sweat to form on Ian’s forehead. “What does Ian Gallagher want?” he asked, turning Ian’s question back on him.

What did he want? He would die before ever telling this man what he wanted. “For this interview to be over,” he lied.

Ian watched those lips smile a little at his response. The layer of sweat was going to become a tidal wave any minute, probably drown them both.

“Why don’t I believe you?” Mickey asked closing the space between them until they were almost chest to chest.

“Delusion?”  Ian suggested looking out the large picture window behind Mickey at the peak of Mount Hollywood, saddened all of a sudden by the sight of those mountains. Why had he come to California?

“I think you’re lying.” Mickey’s voice was so low that Ian couldn’t stop himself from shifting forward slightly to hear, and a whiff of man hit his nostrils. His heart was starting to beat dangerously, and he knew he needed to leave. Now. Out of self-preservation. But his legs wouldn’t obey the vague command he tried to send to them.

“Not up for real questions?” Mickey goaded him. “Afraid of the truth?”

“The truth?” he sneered, looking him square in the eye. “The truth? That’s fucking rich.”

“You got somethin’ to say, Gallagher?”

“Nope,” he replied pressing his lips together when they formed the “p”.

“To scared to spit it out?”

Ian shrugged. “Maybe, but at least I’m not scared to be myself.” He could see the words register, so he pushed. “At least I’m free.”

“You sure about that?” Whiskey, tobacco and body heat trapped Ian when Mickey finally closed the distance between them. He squeezed his eyes shut, determined to get through this unscathed. But all it took was the warm friction of his forehead along Ian’s jaw, maybe Ian sighed. He didn’t know, but he turned his head enough to press his lips into the smooth skin of Mickey's temple.

Bad news, his brain screamed at him, get away. He pulled back, breaking contact just as two hands pressed into his chest slowly working his t-shirt up enough to slip under the fabric and run along his skin.

In the direction of his jeans.

His abs tightened in response to the fingers that touched him through the soft cotton under his jeans. At the sound of heavy breaths next to his ear, he dropped his forehead to Mickey’s neck. Defeated.

This must have been obvious to Mickey because he brought their mouths together, fitting his bottom lip between both of Ian’s and melting any ice that might have remained. He wrapped his arms around Mickey’s waist and dragged him backwards onto the sofa landing softly on top of him. Then kissed him with every ounce of passion, desperation and love that he’d held back since he was a kid.

Until he came up for air, focussing on the sounds of Mickey breathing and the feel of his fingers digging into Ian’s biceps, his thighs tight around his hips. Reality arrived cruelly. He’d fallen for it again.

“No,” he whispered for both their benefits and peeled himself off Mickey. His body felt cold where they had been pressed together. The walk to the door took more willpower than Ian was aware he had, but he only looked back once. He had always been so beautiful to Ian, and never more than when he seemed to be hurting.

Ian would have sworn he was hurting now. His chest was rising and falling rapidly, and the heels of his hands were pressed into his eye sockets. Confused, Ian fumbled with the door handle, blinking rapidly into the afternoon sun as his eyes filled with tears.

 

 

 

“What are you doing sitting on the floor, Mick?”

Mickey didn’t bother to open his eyes when Joe’s voice penetrated the quiet room. His hand was throbbing, and he was pretty sure he was sitting on broken glass, but he just didn’t give a shit.

“What the hell did you do to your hand?” he asked looking at the blood drying on Mickey’s knuckles then at the broken glass beneath the Platinum Award hanging on the wall.  “Not _Bulletproof_. You know that’s my favorite album.”

Joe crouched down, bringing Mickey’s hand up to his face for inspection. “Might be some glass in there.”

“You a fucking doctor now, man?”

“Come on, get up.” Joe wrapped a big hand around Mickey’s bicep and got him into the bathroom. While he opened the first aid kit and removed some antiseptic wipes, Mickey hopped up on the long counter between the double sinks. From his half daze, he slowly became aware of Joe’s soft humming.

“What’s that noise you’re making?” he asked looking at Joe’s lips moving. “You singing something?”

Joe hummed a little louder, then started singing, “Cut on the finger and you’re to blame, you give cuts a Band-Aid.”

It took a second for it all to penetrate Mickey’s fog of self-pity and despair, but he laughed and Joe stood in front of him, smirking at his silliness. Mickey never knew what to expect from this guy.

“He’s gone, Joe,” Mickey said quietly watching absently as Joe dabbed at the gash along his middle knuckle.

“Yeah, he looked wreaked when he left. Barely got the gate open in time.”

“I apologized.” He wanted to stomp his foot a little in frustration.

“And?” Joe asked, and Mickey flinched at both the tone and the burn of alcohol on his cuts.

He shrugged. “And…he just got all pissy and refused to fucking cooperate.”

“Did you get mad?” Joe’s brows lifted in expectation.

“Not really,” he said lifting his own brows in retaliation. “I wanted to, but I, um, went a different route instead.”

“What’s that mean? A different route? What route?”

Silence as Joe cleaned up the Band-aid wrappers. “Oh, that route,” he finally concluded, closing the kit with a snap. “The route you tried during the first interview? How’d that work for you?”

“Fuck off,” he mumbled. “But this time I meant it.”

“I’m guessing he doesn’t know that.” Joe steered him back to the sofa, then sat on the edge of the coffee table so he could look Mickey in the eye. “Wanna know what I think?”

“Is that a real question?”

“No, let me rephrase. Here’s what I think,” he smiled. “This is bigger than your redhead.”

“What?” The question wasn’t really a question, but Mickey wasn’t sure he wanted to understand.

“It’s about you coming to terms with…stuff.”

“You can’t even say it?”

“I think you should be the first one to say it. Not me.”

“Why do I gotta say it? Not anyone’s fucking business.” Mickey flopped back against the sofa in disgust. With who the hell knows what at this point. Himself mostly, he figured.

“It’s not, but this isn’t really about people knowing. It’s about you not hiding.”

It’s about being free, his mind screamed at him.

“Leave me alone now.”

“So you can drink away your feelings?”

“Fuck off. Take the fucking whiskey.” He gestured to the half empty bottle on the table. “Just don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out.”

“Deal.” Joe stood up with the whiskey bottle in his hand. He towered over Mickey waiting for him to look up. When Mickey finally did, Joe nodded with something that looked like pride. Fucking guy.

Before he could get to the door though, Mickey called out to him. “Hey, first can you get me Mandy’s phone number?”

His sister had always told him that her job was to think for him, but he’d never given her the opportunity. Well, Mandy, now’s your fucking chance. He dialed her Florida number and after three rings, her familiar voice carried to his ear. “Mick? What’s wrong?”

“Why do you think something’s wrong?” he snapped.

“You’re calling.”

“I call—” but he paused trying to remember the last time he’d called her. Maybe never, he realized. She always did the calling. “’m sorry.”

“Don’t be a pussy. What’s up?” she asked but Mickey was at a loss. She laughed. “Need help? Okay, start by asking me how I am.”

Fuck he missed her. “How are you?”

“Fine. Now ask how Lisa is.”

“How’s Lisa?”

“Fine. Now I’ll ask how you are.”

“No, seriously, how are you both?” He lifted his bare feet to the coffee table. It turned out that he really did want to know, and he really did want to just talk to her.

“Well…I started dating another asshole. I’m sure he’s an asshole because I’m dating him. That’s my litmus test. Am I attracted to him? Then he’s an asshole,” she smirked then added under her breath. “Or gay.”

Mickey’s heart nearly leapt from his chest, but she continued before he could respond. “Lis is loving ballet and was supposed to mail you a thank you card for the all the dance gear that you bought her.”

“I bought her dance gear?” He smiled imagining his 9-year-old niece in some gaudy ballet tutu but wasn’t even sure if that was accurate because he didn’t really spend enough time with her to know what she wore. So many wrongs to right, he probably needed the rest of his life.

“Yup, it all fit perfectly.”

“Oh, well, I put a shit ton of effort into it so…”

“I just want you to know that when you send money, I’m not spending it all on girls and booze.”

“That’s a fucking relief. One of us doing that shit is enough,” he added, reaching for the bottle of orange juice.

A bit of a silence slipped between them. Mickey was probably waiting for Mandy to do the heavy lifting in this conversation, but she seemed to be letting him flounder around figuring it out.

“You, um, remember your friend from high school?” he asked but only got silence. “Mandy?”

“Can you be more specific? I was really fucking popular.” But he could tell she knew exactly which friend he meant.

“Redhead?”

“Sure, what about him?” Her voice was a little clipped, like she was reluctant to talk about him.

“You still talk?”

“Nah, we lost touch after I decided to follow asshole to Florida and had Lis. Plus he’s a big deal now, writing for _Rolling Stone_.” That shook Mickey up for second. He really knew very little about Ian. “Not as big a deal as you though.”

“Fuck off.” He looked at the line of awards hanging on the walls and wondered if Ian had any on his walls. He probably had to be a big deal to have gotten the The Bourbon Room gig. 

“Why you asking about him?”

“I…ran into him.”

“Shit. Please tell me you were nice to him.” When he didn’t immediately reply, she sighed, “Fuck, Mick. So did you just call to tell me you were a dick to an old friend?”

“No.”

“No? Then what’s going on? I’m starting to fucking worry.”

He closed his eyes and breathed deeply through his nose once then just spit it the fuck out. “I’m gay.” Followed by a long dramatic sigh.

“What?” she asked. “It sounded like you said you’re gay.”

“Christ sake, I’m fucking gay.”

“Nope. Still sounded like you said you were gay.”

“That’s cause I’m still fucking gay.”

“So, let me get this straight.” Her voice serious. “You’re not.”

He started to laugh and she joined him.

“Okay, asshole, you better tell me you woke up gay this morning cause if you’ve been gay this whole fucking time, I’m gonna be real pissed off that you’re just telling me now,” she said not giving him time to reply. “Shit, you were gay in high school?”

He gave her a moment to process the information. “Oh,” she squeaked. “Why are you asking about Ian?”

“He’s gay.”

“Yeah, why do you think I’m not married to him?” she snapped. “Does he know you’re gay? God, did he know in high school?”

“Yeah.”

“He knew and didn’t tell me? I’m really fucking mad at you two. Wait, how’d he know in high school? Did you two…” she trailed off.

“Just before I left.”

“Oh my god, you fucked around with him then left him?” she said, her voice rising with each question. “Jesus, Mick.”

“I wasn’t ready for that shit.”

“Okay, yeah, you needed to get away. I get that. Me too.” He could tell she was thinking, so he waited for her next question. “And now? Please tell me you didn’t fuck around with him and leave him again.”

“No,” he said. “Not exactly.”

“Not exactly how?”

“I was a dick and he’s mad,” he explained fiddling with the lid of the orange juice bottle. “I tried to apologize, but I think he’s done with me.”

“Men,” she sighed. “If I tell you something and you use it against him, I’ll cut your balls off, okay?”

“Sounds fair.”

She hesitated probably wondering if Ian wanted Mickey to know his secrets. “He was so in love with you that I’m surprised even your oblivious ass couldn’t see it.”

“I figured,” he whispered standing up to pace the room now that shit was getting real. For whatever reason, telling her that he was gay seemed a world easier than talking about love. He didn’t even really know what the fuck love was. Let alone how to talk about that shit.

“Goddamn, Mickey, you must a had to work hard to make him mad at you.”

“Guess I was pushing him away?” It came out a question because at this point he still had no idea why he did anything he did. It was all a big black hole of feelings he would rather not examine.

“Okay, that makes sense, I suppose. With you fighting being gay and all. So you ready to be gay now?”

“Fuck no.” He stopped at the window, knowing if he stood at just the right angle he could see the Hollywood sign, but at the moment, the sun was shining directly into the studio.

“I think I might faint, Mickey. Is this some sort of epic love story?” she sighed. “Damn it, where’s my epic love story? Shit’s more like a fucking horror story.”

He let her laugh and lighten the moment for them.

“Mandy?”

“What?”

“I don’t know how to apologize to him.”

“That’s why women were invented, big brother.” The sun moved behind a cloud and Mickey got his view. “Music, idiot.” 

 

 


	13. Crazy on You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PART 4: CRAZY ON YOU (CHAPTERS 14-16)
> 
> "Sang you the song that I heard up above  
> And you kept me alive with your sweet flowing love" -- Heart

Artwork created by Ashja at GallavichArt @ https://ashjashakti.tumblr.com

 

Special thanks to Orange_Army_Boy for allowing us to use some photos. Check them out on A03 at https://archiveofourown.org/users/orange_army_boy or Instagram at orange.army.boy and fucking.milkovich.


	14. The Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey figured a concert at The Bourbon was a golden opportunity to walk out on stage buck ass naked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And my humble apologies to Pop Evil for the butchering of their song, Torn to Pieces. Please forgive me.

Mickey was scared, like honest to goodness real fucking fear. The kind that fucked with your gut and covered your body in cold sweat. Fear wasn’t new to him, but this wasn’t hiding from one of his dad’s rages kind of scared, which was laced with a healthy dose of anger. It wasn’t even close to the fear he’d felt his first week in prison or walking the streets of East LA with a pocket full of coke. That fear kept him alive. The fear he was feeling now was all doom and gloom, like end of the world shit.

He couldn’t even have a cigarette because he was about to perform, and smoke would just interfere with his ability to sing. He couldn’t drink because he sure as shit wouldn’t be able to stop if he started. He couldn’t even focus on the fact he was going to be on stage soon, which usually soothed his nerves. Tonight’s performance was the reason he was so fucked up.

Every impulse in his body was screaming at him to run and not look back, to protect himself at all costs, but he was just too damn tired of the cost. It was time, and that knowledgement caused his gut to heave and he wondered if he was going to be sick.

Get a fucking grip, he reprimanded himself. Twenty minutes from now, it would all be over and his life would be different, but he’d be just fucking fine. And maybe if a redhead showed up and appreciated what he was doing, Mickey would be more than just fucking fine. Maybe he’d be fucking happy.

Maybe he’d even be free.

Just over two weeks had passed since he’d seen Ian and since Mandy had started thinking for him. She’d told him exactly what he needed to do, and this time, he decided to listen to her. The follow-up concert he’d arranged with Dennis at The Bourbon seemed like a golden opportunity to walk on stage buck ass naked. Maybe not literally naked, but he’d much rather have the whole world gawking at his actual ass than his personal fucking business.

But it didn’t really matter what he felt like doing because, at the moment, Dennis was hushing the crowd and explaining that tonight’s lineup wasn’t going to be the typical rock show they’d come to expect from The Bourbon or from Jaxx, but that he was excited to be one of the first venues to bring together such a unique combination of singers from the underground rock scene. The audience seemed okay with that information since the floor vibrated with their cheering. Mickey really fucking hoped that they were as excited at the end of the evening.

While the show was going to provide the hard, heavy beats that his audience expected, they may not be prepared for everything Mickey was about to throw at them. They were used to being bombarded with synthesizers, over produced rock anthems and big hair. What they were about to get was experimental angst and attitude, and a whole lot of flannel, ripped jeans and combat boots.

Mickey looked down at his own outfit, which was as nerve-wracking to him as everything else tonight. No tight leather, no graphic jewelry, no bare chest. He was so used to selling sex that stepping out on stage in loose fitting, slightly ripped jeans and an old sweater was like immediately telling the audience that they were looking at Mickey Milkovich. No costume to protect him from scrutiny.

The plan was to open the show with three songs then pass it over to the performers he’d invited to sing tonight. His first song would be a remix of Paradise City as a bridge between what his fans expected from the performer they knew and what they were about to get from the man he was going to show them. The same lyrics but in a new package.

From there, he’d introduce the other performers, jamming with them, having some fun and not thinking about his third and final song, when he’d be alone on stage again with a thousand faces staring up at him, while he bared his fucking soul.

Mickey could hear his name and the roar of the crowd from where he stood in the wings. He was hidden by the heavy black curtains and an image of himself walking out, getting on his bike and never looking back flashed across his mind. It felt so liberating to think about it that he actually considered it.

Until he thought of Ian. He’d run away without looking back once, and now his life had come full circle both forcing him to face the shit he’d run from and giving him a second chance to have the thing he’d lost in the process of running.

He lifted his hand from the guitar, swiped a knuckle across his nose once, then walked on stage.

 

 

 

Ian didn’t get so lucky with the traffic this time. LA residents seemed to be taking the night off, allowing him to drive freely down Sunset Strip, which pissed him off royally. Maybe there’d be an earthquake or something that would keep him from pulling up in front of The Bourbon Room in less than half an hour.

He’d even contemplated quitting his job when Gord had called him into his office to explain that Mickey Jaxx was so impressed with the article that he would be honored if Ian would return and do a follow up piece about his first solo performance. One of Ian’s eyes had started twitching at that news, but Gord was almost tripping over himself to pat Ian on the back, so it had taken a while for him to get to the Tylenol he kept in his desk drawer.

That’s how he’d wound up whipping down Sunset, finding the mother of all parking spots less than a block from the venue and arriving early. He decided not to analyze why the universe found so much delight in mocking him.

The press pass around his neck got him through the familiar wall of bouncers, by-passing the line of people hoping to gain entry. The dimly lit bar was already crowded, liquor flowed freely and people yelled over the music. The excitement was exhausting to Ian because he didn’t want to be here with his stupid broken heart about to endure yet another stomping.

The first gin went down smoothly. Figuring maybe he was getting the knack of drinking, he ordered a second just as the familiar overgrown salt-and-pepper hair of The Bourbon Room’s owner appeared on stage, along with a drummer who was taking his seat and a couple of bass players who were milling around the speakers.

Setting his now empty glass on the bar top, Ian moved toward the stage. Dennis was talking about Mickey and the new sound he’d brought together tonight for his audience’s enjoyment. The crowd went a little crazy at that news, and Ian felt a ripple of pride travel through his stomach before he could squash it.

The two gins weren’t going to help his campaign he discovered. They just enhanced the whole lovesick Ian unable to keep his heart from dramatically launching itself at his sleeve. Fuck it, maybe he should just take his clothes off right now and lay down on the stage at Mickey’s feet, just be done with it. Ride this wave to the end, then pick himself up when it was over and figure out how to live the rest of his life.

Before he could decide how many buttons would end up undone if he had a third gin, Mickey walked out and Ian’s eyes nearly fell out of his head.

He was wearing a slightly ratty grey sweater, loose fitting jeans with holes at the knees and worn black combat boots. His rings were gone, his hair hung loose and soft around his face. Ian knew immediately that this was not Mickey Jaxx, and he started elbowing his way through the concert goers, mindlessly shoving anyone who stood between him and the stage.

The chords to Paradise City filled The Bourbon Room, but the tune was all wrong, less smooth, more raw. It raked down Ian’s spine, leaving him on high alert. Then Mickey’s voice joined the music, and Ian knew he was going to have to hold himself back. The song was no longer the familiar Ballistic anthem; it had become a lament, a search for paradise, all because of the slightly distorted chords and the shift in tempo.

Even his movements were different, his body was tight and controlled, his focus on the guitar and not the crowd. Ian looked at the faces around him. The frenzied ecstasy he was used to seeing was replaced with wide eyed emotion, like they were all in a sort of snare of angst along with Mickey.

He’d pulled them into his experience making Ian want to cry for real and climb up on the stage, so he could wrap his arms around Mickey as he played and sang. As much as he was sexually attracted to Mickey, it was only a small part of what he felt. He loved him with every fibre of his being. And it might just kill him.

The song ended, and a couple guys joined him on the stage each of them experimenting with dramatic swings in tempo and gritty riffs that sent the amp into overdrive. Ian was trying to process the fact that Mickey was reinventing himself before his eyes. He’d accused him of being another rocker asleep at the wheel, but he’d been wrong. Monumentally wrong.

Having never taken his eyes off Mickey, he barely noticed when he was alone on stage again, but he did notice when he started playing a new song because he looked directly at Ian for the first time. It was a shock when their eyes met because Ian hadn’t been aware that Mickey knew he was there. The Bourbon was so quiet that it felt almost eerie, wall to wall people all hushed while Mickey stared at Ian, and Ian stopped pushing through the crowd. Something was about to happen, he knew it with totally certainty. His life was about to become yet another curve ball.

Mickey’s fingers started plucking the melody on the mottled orange guitar he’d played last time Ian had watched him perform. With the bass playing underneath, he started singing the first verse quiet, almost mournfully, the accent on the off-beats. Ian pressed a hand to his stomach in anticipation.

_I was born sick_

_Of the lie I had to carry_

_The truth I had to bury_

_Until my heart was consumed in fury_

_Now, it’s just an empty cage_

_Chained to hide my secret, my shame, my rage._

The butterflies in his stomach had moved up to his throat, trying to strangle him with his need to tell Mickey how he felt about what he’d just heard. The ramifications of the lyrics bounced around in Ian’s mind, but he didn’t have time to grab onto them before the crescendo into the chorus captured all his attention. The increase in volume just as he hit the distortion pedal left little doubt about how Mickey felt.

_I’m torn to pieces_

_I’m broken down_

_I still see his face when he’s not around_

_I sit here in misery_

_Wondering if I’ll ever be half the man he wanted me to be_

There was no air left in Ian’s lungs. It had all been sucked out in shock. What had Mickey just told the world? 

The extra long note and double beat of silence at the end of the chorus was slightly jarring and pulled Ian’s attention away from his inner turmoil. It felt like Mickey was demanding everyone’s attention, telling them to listen closely, that he wasn’t finished what he had to say.

_But I was born free_

_Of the lie we’re told to believe_

_The truth that’s hidden in deceit_

_Until my heart finally found its beat_

_Now, I wish he were here today_

_Cause no matter how hard I try, can’t wash him away_

He’d never taken his eyes off Ian, and despite the 50 feet of space and dozens of concert goers between them, Ian felt like they were alone.

 _Him_.

That word was going to brand Mickey for the rest of his life. Whether every person in The Bourbon Room got what Mickey had just done, Ian wasn’t sure, but he knew that some people would and that it would spread quickly.

_It's tearing me to pieces, tearing me to pieces_

Every accusation that Ian had made in his article was being shoved back in his face tonight, and he felt ashamed for taunting him. Lashing out in anger and hurt had possibly painted Mickey into a corner.

There had always been so much love inside him for this man that it amazed him he could contain it, but now he was sure it was leaking from his eyes. Mickey would have to be blind to not know exactly how Ian felt, and for the first time, Ian wasn’t afraid to let him to know.

_I love you._

The song ended, and Ian braced himself for the audience’s reaction. The usual clapping and cheering followed. Nothing out of the ordinary. Mickey nodded slightly and made his way off the stage. Ian whipped around to follow and smacked face first into 250 pounds of man. Hard, muscled man. He looked up into the dark eyes of Mickey’s bodyguard, who grasped his elbow and started pushing through the endless wave of people toward the No Entrance sign to the right of the stage.

Two bouncers almost as large as Mickey’s bodyguard moved aside to allow them entrance to the backstage area. Music was starting again, but Ian couldn’t concentrate on it as the black curtains parted, and he was more or less dragged into the small alcove beside the stage. Unable to see past the mountain in front of him, he wasn’t sure if Mickey was already there.

“You okay, boss?” The warmth in that question took Ian by surprise, and he stretched up to see over the shoulder that was blocking his view.

“Yeah, Joe. Ian there?”

Ian sagged with relief into Joe’s back. He sounded okay and he was looking for Ian. Suddenly, he felt overwhelmed by what was happening, unsure how to handle the situation and afraid that he would be too much for Mickey. Afraid that he’d overwhelm him.

Joe turned slowly tipping his head to look the half foot down at Ian. “He’s right here,” he said with his back to Mickey. He continued to look at Ian then nodded. “I’ll be right outside.” The curtains parted, and Ian was alone with Mickey.

He stood in front of the heavy, dark velvet. His hands stuffed into the front pockets of his loose-fitting jeans and his eyes on Ian, who felt tongue tied by the sight of him. Like every other time they’d been together.

“That was…I can’t…” Ian stammered wanting desperately to find some chill. “You were…”

“Fuck, would you please just come here?”

“Yes,” Ian breathed and dropped his messenger bag to the floor at their feet. “Mickey.”

They hugged with their entire bodies. Ian buried his face in Mickey’s neck, pressing his lips to the skin there. He could feel both of their hearts thudding into each other and Mickey’s arms so tight around him that it felt like he was clinging, his smell, his warmth, his breath in Ian’s ear.

It was hard for him to say how long they stood like that, but he could have stayed a hell of a lot longer than they did. Life was so unpredictable that he wasn’t exactly sure what was going to happen when they separated, and this moment was too perfect for anything else to be more than a disappointment.

Inevitably, awareness crept in, and Ian pulled away enough to look at Mickey’s face, but their arms remained tight around each other. “That really was fucking amazing. Holy shit,” he said, nose to nose with Mickey, who released a long sigh. “I’ve never been more proud of anyone.”

“Fuck,” he spat, “I want you to write about it, okay?”

Ian brought his hands up to Mickey’s cheeks, holding them firmly. “Of course.”

“What the fuck have I done? I hate people knowing my shit.” He covered Ian's left hand with his own.

“Did this have anything to do with my article?” Ian braced himself for the answer.

Mickey shrugged. “Had to do with a lot of shit. But, no, I didn’t go out there and do that because you wrote a fucking article.”

Ian touched his lips to Mickey’s, not completely convinced that he hadn’t fucked up.

“I did it for that,” Mickey said. Their lips were still so close that Ian could feel the puffs of air when he spoke.

“For what? I don’t understand.”

“I did it so I could fucking kiss you.” Ian’s mouth opened but no words came out. “So you’d know I wasn’t lying and so the fucking world would just have to deal with it.”

There was absolutely nothing Ian wanted to do more than to give Mickey that kiss. He meant for it to be gentle and sweet, so Mickey would feel cherished after the huge gesture he’d given Ian. But it ended up being rough and furious and left them panting.

Ian’s hands moved from Mickey’s cheeks to his hair, tilting his head so he could reach his lips better. Their tongues met and Ian practically inhaled him. He tasted so good that Ian tried to get closer, forcing their bodies together. It wasn’t enough though.

“Mickey,” he sighed when he felt the velvet curtain tangle around them. “We’re practically on the stage.”

“So what? Nothing I do is ever going to surprise anyone again.” They rested their foreheads against each other.

“Well, it’s going to take me years to recover.”

“Yeah? Did I sweep you off your feet?” The hopefulness in the question sealed Ian’s fate.

“A long time ago.”

“Let’s get out of here.”


	15. The Weekend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey refuses to cooperate.

Mulholland Highway was a ribbon of blacktop that snaked through the Santa Monica mountains overlooking Los Angeles. Ian had never driven it on the back of a motorcycle, and he’d certainly never driven it on the back of a motorcycle with his body pressed to the driver. As much as he couldn’t wait to get to Mickey’s place, he could probably spend another hour zigging along The Snake moulded to Mickey’s body feeling him maneuver the Honda around each curve.

Not to mention that the moment they were off the busy strip and on the darkened highway, Ian’s hands had wasted no time getting under Mickey’s shirt, running along the warm skin. His body was responding predictably, especially when Mickey’s hand covered the back of his, linking their fingers.

By the time they pulled off the highway and onto Deronda, Ian was ready for the foreplay to end. He basically viewed the last 15 years of his life as foreplay. Long, agonizing, painful foreplay with no end in sight. He had his helmet off before Mickey could pull up to the security box in front of his place, and once the bike was at a standstill, he hopped off tossing the helmet on the grass alongside the driveway.

“What the fuck you doing? Gotta get in the gate, man.” Mickey looked between him and the security box, confused until Ian swung his leg over the fuel tank of the bike and sat down face to face with Mickey, dropping his glasses into the bag on his back. “Oh,” Mickey breathed, tossing his helmet next to Ian’s.

“Don’t stop there.” Ian tugged the old grey sweater over Mickey’s head and added it to the pile. While Mickey started hitting buttons on the security box and cursing over how long the security code was, Ian dug his teeth into the tender flesh of his neck. “Come on, hurry up.”

“Fuck, what’s the fucking code?” Mickey moaned tightening his arm around Ian’s waist and letting his head fall to the side. Ian added his tongue and worked his way up to Mickey’s ear.

“Your neighbors are gonna start talking in about one minute.” The gate opened, and Ian slid forward hooking his sneakers over the rear foot pegs and pressing his chest and crotch into Mickey’s. The groan he released was the exhale of those 15 years of foreplay.

As the bike started moving, Ian’s hands joined his mouth in exploring the bare skin of Mickey’s neck and back and arms. His eyes opened enough to see the gate close behind them, then he slipped his hand between their bodies breathing heavily into Mickey’s ear when they both ground against it. Desire radiated from his abdomen out to his limbs. “I need you so bad,” he moaned.

When the bike veered to the left suddenly, Ian’s arm tightened around Mickey’s shoulders, so he didn’t land on his ass in the driveway. “I almost hit a fucking shrub, man,” Mickey laughed but shivered a little as Ian slid his tongue around his ear and popped the button on his jeans.

Randomly guiding the bike in the general direction of the front door, Mickey geared down the moment it came to a stop. Watching the muscles in his forearm and bicep flex as he shifted the bike to engage the kickstand, Ian decided he was way too overdressed and stripped his jacket and t-shirt off, tossing his stuff on the lawn. Their bare chests finally touched, and Ian rested his forehead against Mickey's, closing his eyes with a sigh.

For one blissful minute, they sat frozen. All shallow breath, bare skin and tensed thighs.

Until warm hands framed Ian's cheeks, and he held on tight as the force of the kiss pushed him back towards the handlebars, his knees clenched around Mickey’s hips. A shiver electrified his spine when soft lips touched his throat, leaving warm kisses wherever they stopped, while the fingers digging into his hips pulled them closer.

 _I love you_.

When Mickey sat up, Ian remained pressed against him unable to let go. He could feel Mickey trying to get off the bike, but he wasn’t interested in doing anything that would put separation between them. Even if that meant spending the night on the Honda.

“Hey,” Mickey said running his hands along Ian’s arms. “We’re parked.”

“Good job.”

Mickey chuckled trying to loosen Ian’s vise-like arms a little. “Thanks.”

Eventually Mickey managed to lift a leg over the back of the bike, but the weight of Ian’s body toppled them over, and they hit the soft grass with a thud, rolling a few times in a tangled pile of limbs and wet kisses.

Ian maneuvered himself on top of Mickey, panting, unable to stop his hips from driving into Mickey but also really needing to get his hand inside his jeans. Mickey’s mouth connected with Ian’s neck and sucked hard, almost painful.

“God, take your pants off.”

Mickey appeared to have lost his fight to stay coherent, sucking and biting and meeting Ian’s hips with his own thrusts. The feel of their erections mating was working overtime on Ian’s senses, and he didn’t know if he’d be able to stop the oncoming climax. Mickey opened his legs and Ian’s hips sunk between them.

“Oh, ah, uh,” he grunted in desperation and pushed up to his knees.

“What’re ya doing? C’mere,” Mickey complained.

Mickey looked so fucking sexy laying on the lawn, shirtless, jeans undone, hand reaching out for Ian, lips wet from Ian’s mouth. “Damn, you’re sexy.” He adjusted the crotch of his jeans because he was nearly suffocating in the material then drifted back down, forgetting whatever he was planning to do.

He managed to get Mickey’s zipper down just as the sprinkler system kicked in, and water started spurting them in the face and drenching their bodies. They laughed and rolled together, trying to get out of its path.

Shaking water from their bodies, they managed to get to their feet, and Ian stared at the giant statue in the center of the driveway. “What? Why do you have that?” he asked in amazement.

Mickey looked up from picking wet grass off his bicep, which distracted Ian momentarily. “The kid pissing?” Giving up on the task, he walked straight into Ian’s arms. “Dunno, it was here, and I just never got rid of it. You like it?” he asked, but he was now more interested in Ian’s naked chest.

“Yeah. It reminds me of someone.”

Shifting a little to get a better look at the chubby ceramic kid peeing into the small pool, Mickey tilted his head, “Seriously? Someone pissing?”

“On second base.”

Mickey’s eyes shifted away for a moment, then shot back to Ian’s. “Well fuck, I forgot about that…you were there?”

“Yeah,” Ian replied but started walking Mickey toward the front door. “I’ll tell you about my first boner sometime.”

“You’re fir—” but his words were cut off my Ian’s tongue.

After a brief interlude at the front door with Mickey fumbling around yet another security system, they more or less crashed into the front entry peeling off their remaining clothes and leaving them where they landed in a damp pile on the shiny tiled floor.

Naked now, they came back together in a rush, kissing and hugging and savoring the feel of skin on skin until the need to once more thrust against each other flared up. Ian knew there was a wide, curved staircase somewhere behind Mickey and that those stairs must lead to a bed. Any bed. He blindly took a step forward moving them in the general direction, and Mickey’s hand slid between their bodies cupping both of their erections, pressing them firmly together.

Ian took a couple more haphazard steps, desperate now to get Mickey on his back. They came to an abrupt stop against the mirrored closet door. Mickey didn’t seem to notice that he was blocked between the cool glass and Ian’s body, he just kept pumping his hand. Ian released his lips to look down at the sight between their bodies and groaned. He knew that hand so well from watching it play guitar all these years, and now it was on his body so intimately that he could cry from relief.

Mickey’s palm slipped smoothly over the tips of both of their erections, and Ian had to look away, to his reflection in the mirror behind Mickey, at his own blown out eyes, at the moisture on his lips, at the red marks on his chin from Mickey’s stubble. His palm came up to Mickey’s cheek feeling the prickly hairs, and the intimacy of being allowed to do that tugged at more than his dick.

He bent down to kiss Mickey. Something happened in the kiss that felt different to Ian than the other kisses, and that was a lethal combination. Mickey’s mouth on his and his hand on Ian. But there was no way he was going to let them orgasm here. They’d come too far for their real first time to be rutting in a front entryway like horny teenagers. Hot as that was, Ian wanted it to be right. In a bed. Making love. Not fucking against a wall.

He got them up two stairs before he had to acknowledge that Mickey wasn’t helping. He was focussed on getting them off, which was imminent, but now that Ian had gotten the notion in his head that Mickey needed to know that he wasn’t just a sexual object to Ian, he couldn’t settle for less. So as much as he hated to do it, he pried Mickey’s hand off of them. “Bed.”

Mickey’s hand made its way between their bodies again and Ian had to swat it away, then physically turn him in the direction of the upper level.

“Move it!” he said smacking Mickey’s bare ass to get him climbing stairs, but the smack turned into a caress that trailed over soft skin, brushing between the flesh. Mickey stepped back onto Ian’s step, sinking into his chest, eyes closed, a low “yeah” escaping his lips.

Ian was frozen, still only on the third step, at least a dozen left to climb. It was simply too much. He fit perfectly, cocooned against Ian’s chin and chest and thighs. Like he belonged there.

_I love you._

Wrapping both arms around Mickey’s chest, Ian inhaled deeply. “Bed,” he whispered, begged, this time and they started climbing slowly, still attached in all the spots that Ian knew were going to feel empty whenever he wasn’t there.

“Left or right?” he asked from the top step, but Mickey turned when he reached the upper level, looping his arms around Ian’s neck. The single step difference brought them nose to nose, and lip to lip. Like magnets, Ian’s hands and Mickey’s ass connected.

The heat started up again blocking common sense and practicality. The vague notion of finding a bed struggled to stay alive in Ian’s mind, so he took the final step and turned them toward the right end of the hallway. Surely, there was a bed somewhere in that general direction.

Both of Mickey’s arms were looped like vises around his neck now, and he was pressed hard against Ian, helped by the pressure from Ian’s hands cupping his ass. They were back where they started with Mickey’s hand making its way down Ian’s chest toward their erections, and Ian was dreaming about getting his erection somewhere in the vicinity of where his hands currently were.

They’d made enough blind progress down the hall that Ian could reach a doorknob. He almost dropped to his knees in thanks but figured that wouldn’t end in a bed either. Twisting the knob, he gave the door a good shove.

The room was dark, but the moonlight shone on the perfectly made king sized bed like a spotlight beckoning them forward. Hallelujah, his mind sang just as Mickey’s hand closed around them again. Grasping, rubbing, pumping. Ian’s head fell back for a moment as every vital part of his body tightened in response. He wasn’t going to be able to stop it this time.

Clutching Mickey’s shoulders, he turned him toward the bed, forcing his hand to release them. Mickey stumbled toward the bed just a little, then looked over his shoulder at Ian. His eyes were so hot, the blue looked electric and Ian knew it was all over for him.

Wrapping an arm around his waist, Ian pulled him hard against his cock, thrusting up between his ass cheeks rubbing himself almost harshly, and Mickey grunted, lifting his arm to clutch at the back of Ian’s head. He could feel his breath coming out in hard gasps as his hips continued to rub against Mickey’s body.

Both of their free hands wrapped around Mickey’s cock, and Ian’s legs couldn’t keep them up anymore. They sunk to the carpet, so close to the bed that when Mickey bent forward, his cheek touched the flowered comforter. His hand came down to clutch at it and the sight triggered Ian’s orgasm.

F-U-C-K.

_I love you._

Sometime during Ian’s shuddering, Mickey came too. They stayed perfectly still for a couple of minutes, Mickey pressed into the bed, Ian pressed into him. Hearts beating. Breath catching. Slowly, Ian sat back on his calves, but his palm massaged Mickey’s hip gently pulling him back into his lap.

“A for effort, Gallagher,” Mickey mumbled sleepily as he nestled into Ian’s lap and Ian’s arm locked around his waist.

“No thanks to you,” he complained.

“I was happy with fucking on the stairs.”

Ian didn’t want to flinch at those words, but he felt himself tense up just slightly at the idea that what they had just done could be categorized with fucking. He wanted to kick himself for being so damn needy where this guy was concerned, but the word slipped out. “Fucking?”

“Nah, man,” Mickey responded after a moment of examining their sticky hands still joined and laying in his lap. “Makin’ love.”

Once again Ian tried not to tense up, but this time from utter disbelief and pleasure. Content now, he snuggled into Mickey’s shoulder. “Making love on the stairs?”

“Sure, don’t matter where it is, just matters who it is.”

Ian squeezed Mickey hard, feeling his ejaculation wet between their bodies.

_I love you._

“We’ve made a mess,” he said instead.

“Do I look like I fucking care?”

Ian chuckled, and his eyes made a journey around the room. “Is this even your bedroom?” he asked fully realizing now where they were.

Mickey lifted his head off Ian’s shoulder and looked at the large bed, the built-in wall unit with a television and down to the black shag rug beneath his knees. “Nope. Haven’t been in here in years.”

 

 

Mickey’s eyes shot open, panic skittering across his skin. Until he saw Ian’s hair against the white pillowcase and his slightly freckled back arching gently to where the sheet stopped at his hips. His face, half hidden by the pillow, was peaceful in sleep, soothing Mickey.

Shifting over to his side, he lifted his head to his palm and watched Ian’s back rise and fall as he breathed. Reaching out a hand to touch warm skin, Mickey traced the shape of his shoulder blade and the bumps along his spine. Maybe confirming for himself that this was real.

“What are these sheets?” The question jarred Mickey from the surreal peace he was experiencing, and he shifted his attention to Ian’s hand as it caressed the space between them. “Like what are they made of?”

Mickey felt a tiny blush tinge his cheekbones at the admission, “They’re Egyptian cotton.”

“Sounds fancy. I could get used to this.” He rubbed his cheek lightly against the pillowcase and sigh in pleasure before he eyes opened wide. “I mean—I could get used to the sheets.”

“Just the sheets?” Mickey asked, pouting.

“Yup.” Ian’s fingers moved from the sheets to Mickey’s bicep focussing on it like he needed to analyze it for life and death purposes. “Any, um, other guys get to try out these sheets?”

The tentativeness of the question tugged at Mickey’s recently revitalized heart, and his hand stroked the base of Ian’s back fascinated by the curve. “Nah.”

“No boyfriends?”

He lifted his eyebrows at Ian when their eyes met but followed it with a laugh. “No. I just fucked who I was supposed to fuck and sometimes that was more of a group activity. If some guys were involved then it was just a wild night not me being queer, right?”

Ian’s eyes were open now. “Jesus,” he whispered rolling forward slightly, so he could press his lips into Mickey’s bicep before returning to his pillow. He bent his legs so he could lift his feet high enough to snag the sheet and pull it down his body until it pooled around his ankles. Then he closed his eyes again.

The bright moonlight illuminated their bed giving Mickey the view Ian had intended and the access Mickey craved. His hand moved over the pale flesh of his ass and down to the thighs, the sprinkling of hair tickling his palm. It was slow and exploratory. On the way back up, his fingers detoured between Ian’s ass cheeks, before returning to the base of his spine.

“You ever let a guy get on you?”

Mickey had a moment of uncertainty after asking Ian that question, a sick feeling like a bad hangover threatened to choke him. This was the first time he’d imagined Ian with another guy, in any way, and it wasn’t a good feeling. He couldn’t be a goddamn virgin, but that didn’t stop Mickey from wishing somehow Ian had been on hold the last ten years, waiting for him.

Their eyes met, and Mickey could see his jealousy reflected in Ian’s eyes. He couldn’t hide that shit from this guy.

“You can tell me. I won’t fall apart,” he said smiling a little. “But I may have to give someone a beat down.”

Ian didn’t smile back, and Mickey was now certain someone was getting a beatdown. “Ian.”

The command in his voice got Ian’s mouth moving. “I’m just a terrible drunk, like probably the worst drinker on the planet. I get drunk fast and I make really bad decisions.”

“Like giving me head after that party?” Mickey watched color bloom on his cheeks. “Hey, I’m just teasing.”

“I know, but that was a good decision. I don’t regret it.”

“Well, I spent almost a year in jail thinking about it.”

“What?” The shock on Ian’s face jarred Mickey a little. Had he really seemed that indifferent to Ian? Like their encounter was irrelevant to him. “You thought about it? About me?”

“A lot.”

“If,” he whispered, sliding his body over until he was tucked into Mickey’s chest, “I’d’a known I would’ve visited you in prison.”

Mickey rested his cheek on Ian’s hair, his hand massaging the curve of his back. “I would a hated every second of that.” He felt Ian stiffened slightly. “Then gone back to my cell and thought about you until your next visit.”

“Oh my god,” Ian mumbled because his face was now pushed into Mickey’s chest. “You’re killing me. With regret.”

“Next time.”

Ian’s laugh rumbled along Mickey’s rib cage.

“You wanna tell me about the bad decisions?” Mickey asked moving his thumb to Ian’s cheekbone. “Don’t have to though.”

Ian looked up at him. “When I first got to LA, I was totally alone, so I went to clubs a lot. Mostly I just ended up going home early, feeling more alone. Sometimes though, I let guys buy me drinks. Well, not guys. Men. Older men.”

He didn’t conclude that thought because he didn’t have to, and the certainty that he was somehow at least partially responsible for this hit Mickey in the chest right about the spot that Ian as currently tucked into. “Why’d you come to LA? Was it cause of me?”

“Jesus, I’m not as pathetic as that makes me look,” he grumbled. “I just…”

Mickey tightened his arm. “You had a crush on me.”

Ian nodded and kissed his chest.

“But I,” Mickey paused, “cut and run because I was scared of you.”

Ian poked his head up and frowned, “But…you barely even knew I existed.”

Dark eyebrows lifted in response.

“Right?” Ian asked.

Again, Mickey just started at Ian, so Ian rolled onto his back and started at the ceiling. “Wow.” This caused a moment of panic in Mickey because he wasn’t sure if they were entering dangerous territory.

“Wow.” His Adam’s apple bobbed a couple of times and Mickey couldn’t take it.

“We okay?”

Ian turned his head slightly. “Holy shit,” he announced smiling. “So what did you, like, notice about me?”

Relieved, Mickey whipped a leg around his hips, straddling him. “You fishin’ for compliments, Gallagher?” he teased enjoying the feel of Ian between his legs. He was trapped and at Mickey’s mercy. It wasn’t quite satisfying, so he looped his fingers around Ian’s wrists and pinned them above his head. “You were cute as hell with your big puppy dog eyes hidden behind those glasses and watching everything I did.”

“No wonder you got such a big head,” Ian teased back, tensing his abs as he tried to free his arms. “Think everyone is swooning over you.”

“Yeah, but you were my first...” He squeezed his thighs tightly holding Ian in place. “Groupie.”

“Whatever!” He bucked his hips nearly dislodging Mickey, who righted himself firmly on Ian’s hardening dick, rubbing suggestively. “Oh.”

Mickey released Ian’s wrists and sat up, arching his back so he could brace himself on Ian’s thighs. “I think I’m gonna like this position,” Mickey decided, rolling his hips more forcefully. “Make you my bitch.”

Ian relaxed completely, letting Mickey have his way. He watched him close his eyes and shift subtly, his lips parted a little so his tongue could rub the corner of his mouth. Sorry, Mickey. And Ian flipped him onto his back, pressing him into the mattress with the weight of his body.

“The fuck? I was just getting into my groove,” Mickey frowned at him but his hand found the curve of Ian’s spine massaging it.

Rising to his forearms with the warmth of Mickey’s body beneath him, Ian looked down at him and zeroed in on his mouth. “Then you should be more careful with this.” His right index finger stroked Mickey’s lower lip, pulling it down gently before releasing it. “Your mouth is going to get you in trouble,” Ian said still focussed on how inviting it looked.

Mickey licked the spot where Ian’s finger had just touched. “Mm.” Then he opened his mouth enough for Ian to see his tongue, all slick and welcoming.

A breathy groan escaped Ian. He needed in there. Bad. His finger found its way back to Mickey’s mouth but didn’t stop at his lips. He slid it inside and the further he went the more Mickey opened his mouth to accept him. It was mesmerizing to Ian, the sight of Mickey taking him so willingly.

Opening his own mouth in response, Ian brushed the pad along his tongue as it tried to curl gently around Ian’s finger, all soft, wet warmth. He couldn’t stop himself from moving toward Mickey’s mouth as he slowly slid his finger out. Another groan escaped Ian when Mickey’s hand clasped around his wrist, squeezing almost painfully and stopping Ian from moving.

Mickey looked into Ian’s eyes, only a couple of inches from his own, and Ian’s mouth came down to replace his finger. It was another one of those kisses that felt different to Ian, like they were doing more than just kissing.

_I love you._


	16. The Confession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian switches to a mechanical pencil. :)

Ian nudged his glasses then resumed tapping the yellow HB pencil against his lip repeatedly. “So do you have a muse?” he asked, glancing up at Mickey. He was reclining on a padded lounger next to Ian’s, eyes closed, light blue swim trunks riding low on his hips. Ian tapped the pencil a little harder.

It was mid-afternoon, and they’d come downstairs to the pool area figuring they should get out of bed for a least a little while. So Ian had grabbed his pencil and pad from his bag to get a few notes together for the next article. He had some very clear ideas about what he wanted to include; not only did he want to right the wrongs he’d created with his first article, he wanted to make sure readers knew the importance of Mickey’s actions.

Mostly, he wanted Mickey to see in print exactly how proud he was of him.

“I do now,” Mickey said, flicking his eyebrows at Ian, whose heart nearly thudded out of his chest. “You take that yellow pencil everywhere you go, man?”

“I like to be prepared,” Ian said primly.

“Maybe you should carry a spare. You know, just in case you drop it.”

Mickey closed his eyes, a self-satisfied smirk on his mouth. For a split second, Ian’s blood threatened to boil over as all the past hurts bubbled up, but then he decided revenge was better served cold.

“I’ll take that under advisement. Thanks, Mickey.” His voice was cheerful and eager. Mickey opened one eye then narrowed it suspiciously. Ian just smiled back, nodding and lifting the pencil to show his agreement.

“Harumph,” Mickey mumbled.

“I think I’ll go sit in the shade. This milky skin burns like a motherfucker,” he said casually. The pencil and pad dropped to the patio table along with his glasses. “Care to join me?”

“Yeah, okay, this milky skin ain’t any better.”

They both stood up, moving toward the 7-piece sectional tucked under an awning. As they passed the deep end of the pool, Ian’s hand shot out making contact with Mickey’s shoulder and sending him into the large oval pool.

The splash sent spray up Ian’s legs and a ripple outwards from Mickey’s slowly retreating shape. Ian smiled knowing that Mickey was going to be pissed off, but it felt good to let himself do this. He would have never been able to test their relationship this way because he had always been so focussed on just getting Mickey to notice him.

The smile he was enjoying started to fade a little when Mickey didn’t surface. He stepped closer to the edge, squinting at the water. Waiting.

Still no head breaking through, scowling with indignation and retribution. He squatted down to get a better view, and he could see Mickey floating beneath the water, not moving.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he yelled. “Why do you have a fucking pool if you can’t swim?” Then he jumped in, sinking directly to the bottom and bouncing back up when his toes touched. He opened his eyes to find Mickey and, when they locked on blue eyes, he knew instantly that he’d been had. They were filled with sass.

They both cut to the surface, breathing heavily. Ian spat some water out and scrubbed at his eyes. “You scared the hell out of me!”

“Aw, sorry, let me make it up to you,” Mickey panted, still kicking his feet to keep himself afloat. His hand came up to his hair, but it seemed that pushing the wet strands away from his face took Herculean effort because his bicep bulged in the process. Then he licked the water from his lips, running his tongue over both the top and the bottom. They remained parted even after his tongue disappeared into his mouth. Ian narrowed his eyes. Was he purposefully pouting? Two front teeth appeared and bit into his lower lip. Yup, Ian thought, he was manipulating him with his fucking lips.

Ian’s body was fully, 100% on board with that plan, but he felt like he should stand his ground. Or something. He was having trouble remembering what that ground was exactly.

They were still treading water and breathing deeply from the slight exertion. “I’m sorry for teasing you,” Mickey said lowering his lashes and sliding his foot along the inside of Ian’s thighs. “I promise,” he continued hooking his foot around Ian’s calf so he could pull himself closer, “to never bring up your yellow pencil again.”

Ian narrowed his eyes, but by then, Mickey’s chest was pressed into his and their legs were tangled, kicking together to stay afloat. “It’s okay because I’m thinking of getting a mechanical pencil.”

Mickey smiled at that, a big wide beautiful smile. The kind Ian had only seen a couple of times in photos.

_I love you._

But, as always, he remained silent, kicking his feet until he was able to touch the smooth ledge of the pool. Then he pulled them closer butting Mickey’s back up against it.

He’d stopped smiling and was watching Ian, waiting, lips still parted, so Ian tucked that perfect bottom lip between both of his, kissing it tenderly then releasing it. They shared another look before Ian returned to the lip, sucking a little and releasing.

The flimsy material of their swim trunks couldn’t hide the impact that Ian’s kisses were having on Mickey, so he tilted his hips forward pressing Mickey fully into the smooth tile while he continued sucking and nibbling and licking. After several minutes of making love to that lip, he released the wall and floated backwards into the water, spreading his arms wide. He wanted Mickey to know that every time he touched him, it didn’t mean that he was doing it to have sex with him.

The California sun was directly above him forcing his eyes closed, but he peeked through his lashes when he felt fingers link with his. Mickey was floating beside him, weightless and peaceful. Ian was content. He’d made the right decision.

But that didn’t mean that he’d hold off too long before getting his hands on him again.

 

 

 

Eventually they lost interest in the pool and wound up in the outdoor shower surrounded by tinted glass walls with six jets spraying water at them. Ian was picking up assorted bottles of shampoo sitting on the shelf beside a stack of folded towels.

“Coconut? Strawberry mint?” he snickered. “Pretty Mickey.”

“That’s not my shit, man.”

“Oh? Who’s it then?” Ian asked sniffing the strawberry mint and nodding in approval.

“I don’t know. Chicks passing through,” he replied offhandedly watching Ian’s face pinch slightly as he set down the bottle of coconut shampoo. He suddenly looked stiff, not relaxed and playful. “That shit wasn’t me, right? You know that.”

Fuck, he hated talking about this, even to Ian who got how it felt to live in a world where there was something wrong with you if you were into guys instead of chicks. He hadn’t wanted the women here any more than Ian did. Standing in the shower with Ian though, he couldn’t fathom why he ever really cared what the world thought.

“Well,” Ian said filling his palm with pink shampoo. “At least we know they had great taste…in more than just shampoo.” His hands connected with Mickey’s head lathering it up. He scrubbed slowly smiling when he formed a mohawk with his soapy hair. “Okay, turn around so I can rinse you.”

Backing up into Ian’s chest and thighs, he closed his eyes as he tipped his head into the falling water letting Ian rinse him off. The hands on his head moved down his body, one of them locked around his shoulders, the other pressed into his abdomen, holding him close. Mickey closed his eyes, quickly getting used to being cherished.

Ian’s hands hooked the waistband of his swim trunks and tugged them over his hips, and Mickey released a deep sigh of contentment when they hit the cedar planks beneath his feet. Even without knowing what Ian had in mind, he knew that a short time from now he’d be fully fucking satisfied.

Ian reached around him for another handful of shampoo, the scent of mint filled the shower stall. Creating some sort of association, he figured. He’d probably come whenever his nostrils detected mint in the air. When Ian’s slippery hand started rubbing between his ass cheeks, he was sure that mint was now officially his favorite fucking smell and that the arm Ian hooked around his shoulders was keeping him on his feet. He pressed back making sure that Ian also kept his cock pressed into Mickey’s lower back

As far back as he could remember, he’d craved this kind of penetration, the feel of a guy behind him, pushing his way in. He’d fought it at times and succumbed to it at times, but this weekend with Ian was the first time he’d let someone else see how much he needed it.

He didn’t hold back his body’s reaction to Ian’s fingers inside him. His back arched, his hands sought out Ian’s thighs, his moans came from his gut. And Ian just held him, using his own body to give Mickey all the pleasure he was capable of giving.

“Hey,” Ian whispered in his ear and the vibration added another layer of arousal to Mickey’s already overloaded system, “I’m going to remove my fingers for second.”

Those words almost broke Mickey’s heart, but he trusted Ian, so he nodded slightly.

“Down on your hands and knees,” he added and slowly removed his arm, pressing his palm to Mickey’s back and reaching for the shampoo again. The thought that they didn’t have a rubber competed with the blood pulsing through his veins. It was a bad idea, a really bad idea, but he couldn’t bring himself to care enough to voice his thoughts. He just plain trusted Ian, so he lowered himself to his hands and knees.

The pink shampoo bottle appeared near his left hand, and he lifted it watching cream pool in his palm. His heart kicked up a notch, thinking about his hand wrapping around his cock and Ian’s slicked up fingers in his ass. But instead Ian’s shampoo-less fingers rubbed once over his opening, then spread him making room for his mouth.

A whimper escaped his own mouth at the feel of hot breath touching him, which triggered a groan from Ian that vibrated over his ass. The moment was so erotic to him that his body tried to shoot forward at the sensation, but Ian’s free hand was fused with his hip holding him in place.

Then everything that Ian’s fingers had been doing his tongue started doing only it felt so much better because Ian’s mouth was warm and wet and soft. His goddamn tongue was alternating between fucking into him, hot and furious and demanding, then slowing to place almost tender open-mouth kisses where his tongue had been. He was reluctant to wrap his fist around himself, bringing this all to an end.

At some point, Mickey had sagged until his forehead was pressed into the wood planks, and the scent of cedar mingled with mint. His list of sexual triggers was going to be a mile long by the time this weekend was over.

Ian released his hip, so he could cup the flesh between Mickey’s legs, his fingers barely touching the soft skin of his balls. It was time for Mickey to unclench his fingers, which were now covered in shampoo, and wrap them around his aching cock. He was breathing so hard, it sounded to him like he’d ran a fucking minute mile.

Opening his eyes long enough to see Ian’s fingers between his legs, he pumped his hips furiously into his fist unable to stop himself. Ian’s mouth followed his movements, his tongue back to demanding, forcing itself inside. Hot breath and warm hands everywhere.

Mickey shot come so hard it almost hit him in the face. “Shit,” he mumbled still in a state of shock, which intensified when all the warmth that was Ian a moment ago was gone. He managed to lift his head enough to look over his shoulder.

Ian was standing up in the spray from the shower, his eyes closed as the water flowed over his head, and his hand scrubbed lightly along his face and mouth. But Mickey could see the cocky grin of a very satisfied man.

“You gonna leave me here like a fucking puddle at your feet?” he complained eying Ian’s dick bobbing slightly with his movements. It looked like it needed attention.

“Yeah,” Ian responded, eyes open now. “I like looking at you like that, knowing I’m responsible for it.”

Ian’s cock hardened a little more at that announcement, verifying the truth in it, and making Mickey want to experience that power for himself. Despite the slight ache that was starting to form in his knees from the wood slats, he shifted until he was kneeling in front of Ian, eye level with the cock of his dreams.

Even with Ian’s full attention, Mickey wasn’t satisfied. He wanted Ian eating out of his hand, so he wrapped his fingers around the shaft and smiled innocently. “It’s about time I sucked a guy’s cock.”

The words sent a thrill through Mickey’s body. It really was about fucking time. The stunned look on Ian’s face confirmed the thrill it sent through his body as well. “About time that I return the favor too.”

Ian stroked his cheek. “You never…” His voice was so low it drifted down to Mickey slowly.

“Nah, I hope I do a good job,” he smirked. “Let me know, ok?”

“Oh my god, I hope I hold on long enough for you to get it in your mouth.”

“Right, we should set a few ground rules,” he said gravely and Ian’s eyes widened. “Are you gonna come in my mouth?” Then he took mercy on Ian and opened his mouth.

Despite his 30 years of doubt, it was so liberating to kneel in front of Ian doing exactly what he wanted to do and not giving a fuck if the entire world knew about it that he started making plans for the next time he could suck Ian’s dick.

Between the noises coming from Ian and Mickey’s sudden drive to fit it all in his mouth and still find a way to rub his tongue over the tip, it was anyone’s guess who was enjoying it more. But true to his word, Ian didn’t last long and Mickey awkwardly swallowed around the mouthful of cock.

Sliding out of his mouth, Ian fell to his knees and into Mickey’s arms, like the life had been literally sucked right out of him. “That was—” and tongue tied Ian had returned.

“It wasn’t bad, but I feel there’s room for improvement on the end bit there,” Mickey mused, patting Ian on the back. “Imma practise swallowing.”

“God help me.”

“Yeah, I think you might need all the help you can get.”

“It’s probably a good thing you weren’t available in high school. No way I would a survived.”

“Doesn’t look like you’re going to survive right now,” Mickey said reaching up for a couple of fluffy white towels. He wrapped one around Ian’s shoulders.

“These from Egypt too?”

He kissed the tip of Ian’s nose, lingering for a second. “Let’s take a fucking nap.”

They pushed the wicker sectional together and fell on top of it in, a slightly damp heap of tangled limbs and torsos.

 

 

 

 

Ian wanted to hold onto the dream he was having, dreading waking up to the reality of his lonely bed and the knowledge that he could fill it with a thousand men over his lifetime and it would still always feel empty. But his dreams let him fill the empty space beside him in anyway he wanted.

He always filled it the same way, with dark hair, blue eyes, a sexy voice singing to him about paradise. The dream shifted and he was suddenly freezing cold, wandering through a labyrinth of old rooms following the sound of a guitar playing, but just as he would arrive at a room, the music moved to another room. He rushed from room to room, panicking because he knew he was moving too far into the endless maze to ever find his way out. Forever following the music but never finding the source and unable to stop listening.

With a jolt, he sat up. Sweat dotted his forehead but the rest of his body was covered in goosebumps. The sun was low in the sky and the umbrella overhead blocked the remaining rays, allowing the slight breeze to cool him.

He was at Mickey’s place not alone in his bed. With that thought, another surge of panic ignited. The spot beside him on the sectional was empty.

His head twisted to the side to find Mickey reclining on a lounger, the old blue guitar in his lap, his fingers resting on the bridge. “Morning Sunshine,” he said. “Had to do some picking to drown out the sounds of your snoring.”

Blue eyes sparkled at him, but Ian couldn’t fully let go of the dream. He even entertained the paranoid thought that he was still dreaming but decided that even in his dreams he wouldn’t let Mickey tease him about snoring. “I don’t snore.”

“If you say so.”

Ian threw a flowered throw pillow at him. “I’m perfect.”

“You’ll get no argument from me,” he said resuming plucking on the strings of his guitar.

 _Paradise City._ That explained Ian’s dream. The song haunted him in both states of consciousness. Not a day had gone by since he’d sat paralyzed in the stairwell of the abandoned warehouse that he hadn’t thought about that song. He watched Mickey’s fingers mesmerized by the movement, wondering if he would be able to play the song simply from having watched those fingers repeat the pattern for hours.

Getting up from the sectional, he knelt at Mickey’s feet, signalling him to move the guitar so he could crawl between his legs. Settling back into Mickey’s chest, Ian brought the guitar to his lap, plucking at what he hoped was the G chord. To his ears, it sounded nothing like the song—or any song. He laughed and Mickey kissed his bare shoulder.

For a moment, he just randomly strummed. “What kind of guitar is this?” he asked slightly distracted by the feel of Mickey’s toes rubbing against his shin.

“Ibanez Talman.”

“It matches your eyes.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. What color is it?”

Mickey laughed. “Blue sunburst.”

“Mm, sounds about right.”

“I got another guitar. A Gibson,” he ran his finger tips over the strings once. “Matches your hair.”

Ian sat up a little. “What’s it called?”

“Gingersnap.”

Twisting a little, Ian saw Mickey lift his eyebrows a little trying to act serious. “Well, I like it. Good name.”

“I like it too.”

He twisted back toward the guitar in his lap. “Show me how to play the opening of Paradise City.”

“Yeah?” he murmured. He brought his left hand up to the neck of the guitar. “Okay, you wanna play the G, C and F with the same fingering. Like this.” He demonstrated.

Ian tried to mimic the movements but could feel Mickey’s chest rumble. “How ‘bout I take care of the fretting, you just strum on the top strings. Right here.”

As Mickey’s index and pinky finger tightened on the strings, Ian strummed slowly moving his fingers a little further up the head of the guitar. “Relax a little,” Mickey explained blowing lightly in Ian’s ear. “Let it thrum under your fingers.”

He rested his left hand lightly on top of Mickey’s, feeling his fingers vibrate with the music. He watched their hands for a moment, feeling complete.

“I wanted to do this so bad that night,” he whispered tapping his temple into Mickey’s.

“What night?” Mickey asked confused.

Real panic knocked around Ian’s rib cage when he realized what he’d said. He sat up a little and concentrated on Mickey’s fingers, which stopped moving when Ian reacted to the question.

“Ian?”

“Oh, nothing. I was just rambling.”

“Hey, what am I missing?” Mickey continued when Ian remained silent for a full minute. “You gonna tell me?”

Ian tried plucking at one of the strings, but Mickey’s hand pressed against the sound hole stopping him. “You know why your article hit me so hard, Ian?”

“Because my yellow pencil knows how to write a solid sentence?” he laughed a little louder than was necessary.

“Cause I knew you were going to tell me the truth. That you would always tell me the truth. No matter what.”

“Well, fuck,” Ian muttered pushing the guitar out of the way and standing up. He turned slightly to look at Mickey from the corner of his eye. “Low blow.”

Mickey laughed. “But true. What could you possibly have to say that needs this much drama?” he asked. “Huh? You a fucking stalker or something?”

Ian nearly fainted. His hand shot to his mouth and he turned away, suddenly self conscious that he was standing naked in front of Mickey. But he had no clothes, in fact, he thought crazily, he couldn’t remember where his clothes even were. Ian’s clothes did not do well in Mickey’s presence.  

“Oh,” Mickey said. “Better spit it out, Gallagher.”

He dropped down to the open end of the sectional facing Mickey. “I’m not like a stalker, stalker. I don’t have a fucking shrine set up with your pictures. Well, not exactly,” he amended and Mickey chuckled again. “I might have a few videos. And some magazines. Albums. Two t-shirts. Oh, fuck, I am a stalker!”

He cut his eyes to Mickey’s, who was grinning like this was the most fun he’d had all day, or at least since Ian’s tongue was inside him. Ian felt his dick fill a little. Oh god, he didn’t want to have this conversation with his erection on full display.

Mickey’s eyes traveled down to Ian’s body, then back up to his eyes. He lifted his brows in surprise, but his eyes continued to move until they were on his own dick, which was responding. Ian was now a mess of love, desire and mortification.

“I followed you to the warehouse on 43rd the night you wrote that song,” he blurted out.

“The night…” Mickey frowned trying to remember. He tipped his head against the lounger closing his eyes in thought. “Yeah, right. Terry used me as his fall guy, didn’t go home for a couple weeks actually.”

Ian hadn’t know how long Mickey was homeless because he’d tried so hard after that night to stop his self-destructive behavior that he hadn’t asked Mandy. Not that she would have told him anyway. She’d always tried to protect him.

Mickey opened his eyes. “You were there?”

Fidgeting with the tag on the side of the cushion, Ian nodded. “You picked up beer from the store where I worked. You had a split lip.” Ian touched his bottom lip where Mickey’s cut had been. “I wanted to kiss it better.”

“Fuckin’ hell,” Mickey whispered. “I remember. Was sent to get a late payment. Shit went south fast. You should a kissed it. Fuck.”

“But you would of cut my tongue out.” Ian meant it teasingly, but it ended up sounding a bit like an accusation. “I mean…”

“Yeah, I probably would’ve punched you but secretly,” he paused until he had Ian’s full attention. “I would’ve loved it.”

“Then I should of done it. Would’ve been totally worth it.” He smiled a little, but his mind was totally reliving that moment and overlaying it with images of his lips touching the cut, tasting the tang of blood, his tongue massaging it until Mickey punched him.

“Yeah,” Mickey agreed licking his bottom lip. “So many missed opportunities.” They looked at each other for a few beats. Years of them, Ian thought sadly.

Mickey tapped the body of the guitar, then plucked a couple of notes. “So about this stalking…”

Releasing a sigh, Ian continued his story. “Your brothers came in and you told them about the warehouse, so after you left, I was going to invite you to come stay at my place until you could go home. Well, I seriously doubted I’d be able to get the words out of my mouth, but I was gonna try.”

Two tiny red circles were forming on his cheeks, and he could feel the heat spreading down the back of his neck. “When I got there, you were playing, trying to complete Paradise City, although I didn’t know that at the time. I,” he took a deep breath, “stayed on the stairwell all night with you. I’ve never been able to hear a guitar since and not be back there. With you.”

Mickey said nothing for so long that Ian started to fidget again. Shit, maybe he was a fucking stalker. Had he told him too much? Probably freaked him out. Yeah, so I followed you for years and moved across the country, so I could be close to you. Damn it.

Looking down at this guitar, Mickey slipped the black leather strap over his shoulder and stood up, back straight and wrist resting on the bridge of the guitar. His tattooed fingers ran along the strings between the sound hole and the bridge. Sitting so close, Ian was able to see the strength in his fingers and remembered the feel of fingertips moving over his body, the scratch of callouses created from years of strumming.

With his fingers arched over the fret board, he smiled at Ian then started to play. Before the first double hit on the A string, Ian knew what song he was playing, and if he had been wearing any clothes, they would have combusted. By the time Mickey opened on the E and paused before the classic rock riff, Ian’s heart was pounding in his chest anticipating the chorus.

The song had probably resulted in a generation of people deciding that the world isn’t such a fucked up place as long as you have someone whose body makes you feel alive. That was exactly what Ian knew when he’d met Mickey, and it was why he’d followed him across the country. He just didn’t feel alive without him.

He’d heard Mickey sing so many times, so many different songs, but this one was different. It was intimate and made Ian’s throat dry. They stared at each other as Mickey sang to him.

 _But I tell myself that I was doin' all right_  
_There's nothin' left to do at night_  
_But go crazy on you_  
_Crazy on you_  
_Let me go crazy, crazy on you, oh_

Each line brought him closer to where Ian was seated until the final line of the chorus, then he straddled Ian’s legs and lifted the guitar over his head, setting it down beside them.

Using only his voice as an instrument, he sang the next verse as he sat slowly in Ian's lap.

 _My love is the evenin' breeze touchin' your skin_  
_The gentle, sweet singin' of leaves in the wind_  
_The whisper that calls after you in the night_  
_And kisses your ear in the early moonlight_  
_And you don't need to wonder, you're doing fine_  
_My love, the pleasure's mine_

He didn’t sing the chorus because his mouth was busy, but they both heard it.

_Let me go crazy, crazy on you._

 

 

 

“This kitchen is bigger than my whole apartment.” Ian did a 360 taking in the room, the shiny appliances, some of which he couldn’t identify. The large bay window faced a sprawling yard with a wooden gazebo dead center. “That gazebo might be too.”

“Waste of fucking money, basically.” Mickey yanked open the industrial sized fridge door, flooding the darkened kitchen with light. “I can’t cook. And who the fuck sits in a gazebo?”

“Well,” Ian replied leaning into the counter to get a better view of the structure in the late evening light. “Who said anything about sitting?”

“I ain’t gonna stand in—oh, okay.” He nodded at Ian from around the metal door, his eyes alight with pleasure. “Good fucking thing I got a big ass house. Lots of places to fuck.”

“I’m surprised your realtor didn’t mention it.”

Ian could hear laughter from the other side of the fridge door. “What do you want? Got some chicken, leftover pasta, some green shit, maybe kale, who the fuck knows? Joe thinks if he puts shit in here, I’ll fucking eat it. He could shove it down my throat and I wouldn’t eat it.”

“Joe seems like more than just a security guard. How long have you known him?” Ian pressed his chest into Mickey’s back, so he could peer over his shoulder and into the fridge.

“Almost the whole time I’ve been here. He was security for Whitesnake while we were touring with them. We fell in love and I stole him away. Coverdale is still pissed at me,” he laughed clearly enjoying whatever memory this brought up. “I told him I was fucking irresistible, but he still trusted me with his security guard.”

“Joe’s gay?” Ian wanted to throw up, and he hadn’t even had any of the cold pasta that Mickey was sniffing.

“Nah, but even straight guys love me.” He lifted his eyebrows at Ian offering him pasta. Ian nodded absently. “Grab two forks from the drawer there.”

As they ate the cold dish of pasta straight from the Tupperware container, he explained that for some reason, when Joe heard that Mickey and Ballistic were looking for a security manager, he asked for the position, and Mickey wasn’t gonna say no even if it meant starting a family rivalry with another hair band.

“Joe is…more than security, I guess.” Mickey took the plastic container to the sink. “He’s family.”

Ian was leaning against the front of the refrigerator watching him closely. Happy now to know that Joe was only a friend and that Mickey had someone to trust. From what he could see his bodyguard wasn’t fazed by Mickey’s preferences.

Mickey turned toward Ian, then leaned back against the island. His eyes traveled down Ian’s tall frame, over the bare chest and the hand resting on his belly stopping at the tight-fitting briefs. For Ian is was almost like being touched and his hand followed the gaze. Their eyes met and Mickey flicked his eyebrows once, asking without words for Ian to touch himself.

Being 17 and infatuated had felt like the end of the world to Ian because he thought he wouldn’t be able to live without Mickey. Being 27 and in love confirmed that for him.

He closed his eyes and let his hand caress his abdomen then slip under the band of his briefs, imagining the whole time that it was Mickey’s hand. This time, he had the knowledge of what that hand felt like, of how it moved, how it held him.

When he opened his eyes, Mickey was watching and he looked at Ian like he never wanted to look anywhere else. Relief poured through his body. Turns out he just had to wait long enough.

“You were so fucking hot that night,” Mickey said. “I swear to god I almost came out, just to get a piece of that.”

Ian smiled. “You would’ve gotten a piece of this for a whole lot less than that. I promise I would’ve been really cheap.”

“Yeah, but you weren’t the fucking around kind, you were the…marrying kind.”

Ian’s heart skipped a beat. “So not just a warm mouth?”

Mickey nudged his nose with the pad of his thumb. “Must a been some asshole who said that to you.”

“Nope, some guy who needed more time.”

“Ten fucking years apparently. Jesus.”

“I’d say it was worth it. I mean look at that gazebo.”

“It’s what kept me going. I had posters and shit of gazebos all over my room. Kept my dream alive.”

“Speaking of dreams…what’s the dream now?” Ian asked as Mickey sat down in one of the bar stools at the island and motioned for Ian to come forward.

“Got that new sound, you know?”

“Yeah, amazing.” Ian tucked his hips between Mickey’s thighs and wrapped his arms around his neck. “I think _Rolling Stone_ needs to get with the program. Glam rock might be about to take a major hit in the music industry.”

“I can already tell.”

“Yeah, you been following this new sound for awhile?” He watched something light up in Mickey’s eyes.

“I was in Seattle for a few months earlier this year, met a few guys.”

“The ones on stage with you last night?”

“Them and a few others. We’ve been talking about shit.”

“This is fucking exciting,” Ian said feeling it travel through his own body in much the same way as Mickey’s hands were travelling along his back. “What shit?”

“Like a travelling concert, but alternative rock, punk even some rap. Nothing mainstream though.”

“Seriously?” Ian was trying to absorb all this. He’d thought Mickey was having a dry spell, but he’d simply been transitioning.

“Sure,” Mickey smiled and pulled Ian close enough to rest his cheek on his chest. “I’m gonna need to move up to Seattle though, at least for awhile. Lots of shit to get done.”

Ian was grateful that Mickey couldn’t see his face, although he surely could feel the uneven beat of his heart. The thought that had followed him around forever reared its ugly head once again: Ian had known, always known, that he was going to spend his life wanting Mickey Milkovich.

Tears pushed at his eyelids, but he’d had lots of experience hiding them.

“I’m still hungry,” he announced kissing the top of Mickey’s head, then gently disentangled himself. He’d deal with that later. This weekend wouldn’t be ruined by an uncertain future.

He tugged the fridge door open. A key lime pie was sitting dead center. “You didn’t mention pie!” he accused turning toward Mickey, the pie plate held out as proof of his secrecy. Mickey looked serious for a second then shook his head.

“I thought you should eat your fucking supper first.”

“No way,” Ian whined dramatically. “Dessert first, Mickey.”

“Share that shit,” he barked as Ian dropped the plastic wrap on the island and lifted a piece out with his fingers.

“Oh, um, yum,” he moaned only half in jest.

“Gonna come in my fancy kitchen?”

“I have no doubt that I will be doing that very soon.”

Ian held the pie slice out a little and Mickey took a healthy bite. “Oh, um, yum.” Then winked at Ian and Ian had that urge again.

“I love you.”

He snapped his mouth shut. The pie plate started to tilt as he brought it to his chest in mortification, but Mickey righted it and set it on the island. “No, I mean…” but Ian couldn’t complete the thought. He wasn’t going to lie, not about that. Damn it.

“I know that you love me.”

“Please don’t say you love me, too,” Ian said stepping back from Mickey when he opened his mouth to speak. “I know you don’t, you can’t love me. It’s too soon.” He continued to shake his head. “Don’t just say it.”

Mickey nodded soothingly, while crowding Ian against the island. “Okay, I won’t. But when would be an appropriate time to love you? Not today, right?”

“No.” Ian was so embarrassed that it had come to this.

“How about tomorrow then?” Mickey asked, opening his eyes wide in anticipation.

Ian shook his head.

“Next, um, Tuesday?”

Ian shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe.” He rolled his eyes to show he knew this was a joke.

He took Ian’s hand and pulled him to the built-in desk area and the motorcycle calendar affixed to the wall there, a classic Triumph under the July heading. Pulling the little jar of assorted pens and pencils to himself, Mickey selected a blue felt tipped pen then frowned at it. “That won’t do.”

Tossing it aside, he reached for a yellow number 2 HB pencil. “Perfect.”

Ian was biting his lip to keep from smiling. “Okay, so…” Mickey ran his finger along the little squares on the calendar, “Tuesday…looks like I’m free all day. You wanna check your calendar before I write it in here?”

“Uh, I have a weekly staff meeting at 9, but I should be good after that.”

Mickey nodded in thought, the tip of the pencil tapping his lip thoughtfully. “Well, I don’t think I’ve ever been up before noon, so that shouldn’t be a problem.” He bent forward. Touching the little Tuesday square on the calendar with the pencil lead, he started to write. Ian bent forward too, in anticipation.

_Mickey loves Ian._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Birthday Raine. <3 I'd serenade you but I ain't no Mickey.


	17. Comedown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PART 5: COMEDOWN (CHAPTERS 17-20)
> 
> "'Cause I don't wanna come back down from this cloud  
> It's taken me all this time to find out what I need"  -- Bush

**Artwork created by Ashja at GallavichArt @ https://ashjashakti.tumblr.com**

 

  



	18. Summer 1989

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OH MY GOD! IT'S MICKEY JAXX!!

 

Mickey had mixed emotions about the Seattle Sea-Tac Airport. Today, it meant that he got to see Ian, but in two days it would mean that Ian was leaving again. They’d been doing this for months now. When Mickey had first moved to Seattle last fall, he’d made half the trips to LA to see Ian. Over Christmas, they’d met in Chicago then traveled together to Florida to see Mandy and Lisa. But the last few months, he’d been too busy with stupid concert related shit to make time for LA, so Ian had taken up the slack. He could tell, though, that it was starting to take a toll on Ian but didn’t know what to do about it.

The late afternoon showers had stopped for the moment, so Mickey leaned against their Jetta, a smoke between his lips, and stared at the revolving doors of the terminal. Tucking his hair behind his ear, he crossed his ankles and pondered. That was a thing he did now. A lot.

Ian would be walking through the doors soon—for the third time this month—and Mickey was trying to decide how to bring up the whole long distance relationship bullshit. Weighing the pros and cons of having a “talk”, he figured that ignoring it, while getting the number one spot on any list, had the potential of backfiring on him.

But ultimately, it always came down to the question: what would be the point in talking about shit? They were trapped between two worlds. Ian in LA and Mickey in Seattle. Not that Ian had ever made him feel like he was trapped. The guy seemed willing to do whatever needed to be done, which just added to Mickey’s growing unease.

Agitation was making him antsy, so he tapped the tinted passenger window of the Jetta. Bending slightly to eyeball Joe as the glass lowered part way, he explained, “Gonna head in to get him.”

As usual, Joe had shown off his perfect combination of aggressive yet friendly driving skills and got them a spot near the door closest to Ian’s airline. He nodded at Mickey then shot an imaginary finger gun at him along with a click of his tongue.

“Oh my god, why do I keep you around?” Mickey groaned.

“Cause I’m pretty.”

“Check the mirror, man,” Mickey retorted and walked away, wiggling his ass a little for Joe’s benefit.

He flicked his smoke in the general direction of the outdoor ashtray, earning a scowl from an elderly guy surrounded by a train of matching suitcases. Mickey wiggled his ass at him too.

 

 

 

Tap, tap, tap went Ian’s pencil, sometimes against his bottom lip, sometimes against his notepad. His agitation over whatever was taking the flight attendants so long to open the plug door and release the 200 passengers was growing steadily. He was going to be the first person off because Mickey insisted on buying Ian first class tickets so that he could get his ass into Mickey’s arms faster. It went without saying that nothing was more important to Ian that getting his ass into Mickey’s arms, but something had seemed different the last few visits and Ian was trying not to make it into something it wasn’t.

Instead he was making notes in his little book, keeping his emotions from running the show. He started to chew on the end of his pencil, then remembered that he’d recently switched to a mechanical one and the feel of plastic instead of wood was unfamiliar. Frowning at the thing, he felt like tossing it in the flight attendant’s little trash bin. He also felt like nagging the two women to get him off the plane.

Fuck, what was his problem? He was about to make out with his boyfriend after twelve days of having nothing but his memory and his hand to get him through, so why wasn’t he excited rather than anxious? Just as he started to wonder if he might go crazy, the shorter of the two attendants adjusted her tight skirt and gave the handle on the door a yank, letting in a cool damp breeze.

“Welcome to Sea-Tac! The current temperature is 53 degrees, but it looks like the rain has stopped. For the moment!” The pilot ended his announcement with a dry chuckle, and Ian wanted to stop by the cockpit to tell him to get some new material. When you make this trip three times a month, hearing the same joke every time really took away from its impact.

Free of luggage himself, Ian helped the lady beside him tug her suitcase from the overhead compartment before freeing himself from the plane. Looping his messenger bag over his shoulder, he hustled across the tarmac toward the American Airlines employee who was ushering people through the correct door. Then he made the familiar trip through the maze of hallways until he exited out into the lobby.

 

 

 

Mickey took a small step forward when Ian walked through the doors. After nine months together, he was starting to read Ian’s moods and emotions on his face and how he held his body. So he knew when something wasn’t quite right. But whatever was bothering him didn’t stop his eyes from warming and his head from tipping a little when he saw Mickey waiting inside the terminal instead of at the car. That was all Mickey needed. If something was wrong, they could deal with it as long as everything was cool between them.

“Baby,” Mickey whispered when Ian stopped in front of him. Soft shit was the key to Ian’s heart and Mickey used it liberally. He wasn’t above getting as many loving, hungry looks from Ian as he could milk. “Missed ya.”

Course two gay dudes couldn’t lock lips in the middle of this crowd like the other passengers and their loved ones, but Ian stared at his mouth so long that Mickey felt like he’d actually been kissed. It made Mickey smile every time.

In addition to the look, Ian touched Mickey’s belly just above his jeans. T-shirt material separated their skin, but Mickey knew how to imagine the feel of Ian’s hands. He’d had a lot of practice. But the gesture was out of sync with their usual routine and threw Mickey off just a little. Plus Ian got a little bit closer than he’d expected, probably too close for two guys who weren’t fucking.

“Let’s go,” Ian said. “Backseat of the car.”

 

 

 

Ian slid into the backseat of the Jetta. Twisting a little to make eye contact, Joe nodded at him and Ian smiled placing his hand on Joe’s shoulder briefly. “Hey, man.”

“How was your flight?”

Joe asking him this question was part of their routine, but now all these little routines felt to him like reminders that he was only visiting, popping in briefly to disrupt Mickey’s life.

“Uneventful,” he responded looking out the window as a low flying Boeing took off. He’d be doing that too soon.

“Good to have you home.”

That wasn’t part of their routine, and the word shook Ian out of his melancholy a little, but Joe had turned back to the wheel before Ian could respond. Not that he was sure how to respond. Was he home? Where was home for Ian?

“Hey,” Mickey nudged him in the hip from where he was bent peering through the door. “Scooch.”

“Scooch?” Ian laughed and his negative thoughts fled because they were no match for that face. “No, sit in my lap.”

Simultaneously, Joe chuckled and flipped the rear view mirror up, and Ian snagged the front of Mickey’s shirt, getting him inside the car. As they started to pull away from the curb, Ian grabbed the door handle yanking it closed, and Madonna started singing about being a virgin.

With the radio turned up enough to block their voices and the tinted windows surrounding them, Ian adjusted Mickey, so he sat properly across his lap. He got a few frowns but no actual physical objection.

Once he was pulled tight against his body, Ian relaxed, letting his forehead drop to Mickey’s chest so he could burrow into the spot below his shoulder. His hand returned to Mickey’s belly, but this time, he was free to push the material aside, his palm resting on the muscle there.

He felt Mickey relax into him, his arms finding their way around Ian and his cheek resting on Ian’s head. Then they just sat and breathed. This is the reason, he reminded himself. When he was away from Mickey, he allowed himself to doubt it was real, but within minutes of being together again, he remembered.

“I love you.”

Mickey kissed the top of his head. “I love you too.” Ian squeezed him tight until he started to squirm a little. “Okay, okay. I told Joe to stop at a store, so we could get a few things. I haven’t been home much, so the cupboards are bare, man. I ain’t letting Joe pick shit up for me anymore. You know what he brought home last week?”

 _I haven’t been home much_. Ian hated those words. He was hearing them more and more with each visit, and several times when Ian had called before bed, the phone went to the answering machine.

“ _Healthy_ shit, Ian. I said unless he’s got Froot Loops in that bag, he can just take his shit home with him.”

Ian listened to Mickey ramble for a minute, loving how comfortable he’d become in sharing random thoughts with Ian. It was like he wanted to make sure Ian always knew what was on his mind.

As Joe maneuvered the car toward the Capitol Hill district, Ian let his hands roam freely and Mickey all but fell asleep in his lap. Not only had Mickey given him access to his mind, he had full access to his body. Hips, thighs, back, neck. It drove Ian a little bit crazy actually because he feared it would never be enough. That he’d always want more.

Recognizing the shops along East Broadway, Ian straightened out Mickey’s shirt and nudged him back to reality. “Gonna pull up to Broadway Market any second,” he smiled at Mickey. “We’ll stock up on Froot Loops.”

“Don’t tell Joe,” Mickey said moving onto the seat beside Ian.

“I heard that.”

Ian smiled at Joe, who was now looking at them through the mirror.

The sky was deciding whether to piss down on them again as Joe dropped them in front of the grocery chain. Ian slid out behind Mickey watching his ass make its way across the parking lot toward the automatic doors.

“I’ll park in front,” Joe said. “Make him eat something other than cereal.”

“I’ll sneak in some vegetables,” Ian promised.

Before they could enter the store, two young women in skin tight faded jeans and mall bangs halted in disbelief. One of them stepped directly in Mickey’s path, “OH MY GOD! Brenda, it’s Mickey Jaxx!”

Her hand shot out blindly searching for her girlfriend’s arm. Brenda released her bag of groceries onto the pavement, and her mouth dropped open in shock.

“OH MY GOD!”

Ian paused a few steps behind Mickey and waited it out, wondering if either of them was going to faint like the two chicks last month, but mostly he was watching closely that they kept their hands to themselves.

“OH MY GOD! Why don’t I have my camera with me!” They were both talking loud enough to be heard back at Sea-Tac. “Can we get your signature? Brenda! Get a pen!”

Mickey looked over his shoulder at Ian and smirked. They’d talked a lot about this because it happened way too often for Ian’s liking. Initially, Mickey had teased Ian about his possessiveness, until he realized that Ian didn’t find any of it amusing, especially when he always had to return to LA without Mickey. He appeased Ian by laying out the ground rule: no touching.

More or less blocking all the other customers coming and going, the two hyper girls searched in their oversized purses for something to write with. Before they could start emptying the contents onto the sidewalk, Ian pulled his mechanical pencil out of his pocket. He stepped forward to offer it to Brenda’s friend, and she snatched it out of his hand, dropping her purse into Ian’s arms, which elicited another smirk out of Mickey.

Brenda offered the Broadway Market receipt to Mickey, and he wrote something then handed the little slip of paper and pencil back to them making them squeal and jump up and down.

“OH MY GOD! Brenda, look, he put a little heart over his name!”

Ian could hear Mickey laugh as he stepped around them. As the doors opened, he turned back to Ian and waited for him to catch up. The gesture soothed Ian’s nerves, until Brenda yelled out that Ian had forgotten his pencil. He looked at the navy plastic Bic pencil in her hand and hesitated. Mickey moved around him to snag it then tapped Ian’s chest with the tip.

“I know how important your pencil is to you, Gallagher.”

Ian ignored the offered pencil. He was done with that; he wanted his old yellow pencil back.

 

 

 

In the interest of time, Mickey suggested Ian grab some shit from the produce section while Mickey tracked down the cereal aisle. It seemed like a reasonable, practical suggestion to Ian, one that would make sense objectively, but it left him with that low-level anxiety again.

Feeling ridiculous, he touched his fingers to Mickey’s briefly and headed in the opposite direction. Knowing how Mickey felt about kale, eggplant and grapefruit, Ian bypassed those grabbing stuff to make a salad and some bananas for breakfast. Balancing it all, he stopped by the cooler for a jug of milk, grabbing a jug of chocolate as well for his sugar fiend. Then he made his way past the food aisles looking for Mickey.

He could see the “Cereal” sign dangling from the ceiling before he could see the actual aisle, and just as he turned down it, the bananas slipped from his precarious pile. Squatting down to pick them up and try some more rearranging, he glanced down the aisle absently.

“What the fuck?” he said under his breath letting the bananas fall back to the floor. Mickey was standing with his back to the rows of red Froot Loop boxes, and a young guy with overgrown blonde hair covered in a red beanie was standing in front of him. Just as Ian looked up, the guy reached forward to take a cereal box from the shelf and the movement brought him dangerously close to Mickey.

Too close, Ian thought, for two guys who weren’t fucking.

No, that’s ridiculous. It really was and he knew it, but it didn’t change the fact that this guy was in Mickey’s space and Mickey was just standing there. Ian zeroed in on his face. He didn’t look put out by or particularly interested in the guy’s proximity. Like usual, he was just waiting out other people getting in his personal space.

Ian’s feet were melded into the tiled floor, and by now the bright overhead lights were giving him a headache causing that damn twitch in his left eyelid.

“Hey,” Mickey called out, his voice snapping Ian out of his self-imposed doubt. “You’re dropping shit, man.” He nodded at the blond guy, who patted Mickey on the shoulder once, calling out a “see you tomorrow, Mick” as he headed in the opposite direction of Ian. Not even sparing Ian a glance.

 _Mick_.

Ian knew that most other musicians called him that, so it should just alert Ian that Mickey knew the guy through some sort of music related scenario, but that just made it worse because then he had regular access to Mickey, maybe even more access than Ian currently had.

Unable to do anything but ask, Ian sighed. “You know that guy?”

“Yeah, sure, it’s Chad,” he explained, bending down for the bananas.

Chad. Ian’s eye started up again. “He likes Froot Loops, does he?”

“I don’t know. He asked for a recommendation. What kind a person doesn’t know what cereal they like?” He took the jug of chocolate milk from Ian with a murmured “mm”.

An asshole, Ian thought unkindly. “He’s a musician?”

“Yeah, how’d you know?” Mickey lifted his brows in surprise. “He’s thinking about touring with us next month.”

If his hands hadn’t been so full, Ian would have pressed a finger to his eyelid. “How nice.”

“You look tired, man.”

“Yeah, I guess I am.”

“Let’s get you to bed then,” he suggested with enough innuendo to almost make Ian smile.

One more question lay on Ian’s tongue like a cyanide pill. Was Chad gay? His body language suggested it, and over the year since Mickey had come out publicly, he’d amassed quite a following of guys, especially musicians, who felt safe to be more open about their sexual preferences because Mickey had opened up the stage.

Suddenly Ian was tired, truly tired. Here he was letting jealousy rule his mind while Mickey was helping all kinds of young men face the truth about themselves. Damn it.

 

 

 

Dropping their purchases on the conveyor belt, Mickey glanced a few times at Ian who was staring at the plastic covered rib eye steaks like he’d never seen meat before. Something was definitely up, but he didn’t think now was the time to grill him. Reaching into his pocket for his wallet, Mickey turned toward the pubescent clerk who had just begun punching their purchases into his till.

“OH MY GOD!” yelled “Robbie D.” according to the name tag pinned to his bright blue polyester Broadway Market smock. “You’re Mick—"

“Oh for fuck sake,” Ian growled under his breath and pushed passed Mickey to get to Robbie D. “Gimme a pack of Marlboro.”

Mickey whipped his head around in surprise.

“Menthol,” Ian added not looking at either him or Robbie. His attention was on his messenger bag, which was refusing to co-operate with him and causing a lot of hissing and swearing. Then he looked up directly into Robbie’s face and jammed a finger in Mickey’s direction. “He’s paying.”

With that he grabbed the smokes out of the kid’s hand and turned toward the exit, returning ten second later and snagging a lighter out of the little cardboard holder on the aisle beside the magazines. Mickey was watching him so closely that he noticed the moment that Ian’s attention shifted from the lighters to the magazines.

“Oh for fuck sake,” he repeated, and the middle aged couple behind him stepped back slightly. “We’re buying these too,” he snapped throwing the six copies of _People_ magazine on the conveyor belt toppling Mickey’s Froot Loop boxes. The magazines landed face up, and Mickey was forced to look at his own face and half-dressed body.

With a couple of mumbled “excuse me’s” Ian pushed past the awestruck couple and grabbed the _People_ magazines from the other two check-out stands, adding them to the pile. Then apparently satisfied, Ian took his cigarettes and lighter out the door, leaving the small group gaping awkwardly after him.

“Boy, he seemed pissed, man,” Robbie D. said unhelpfully as they watched Ian through the large front window. He had stopped on the sidewalk to rip open the cigarette package and pull out a smoke.

Mickey turned back to his groceries and gave the couple behind him a side glance. The husband feigned interest in the _TV Guide_ display, but the wife reached a hand out for one of the _People_ magazines. “Um, could I get your autograph?”

A couple signatures later, he exited with three bags of food and one bag of magazines hanging off his arms. Ian was turned toward the street, and Joe was leaning against the Jetta half a block south. Like a coward, Mickey wanted to wave his bodyguard down and get him to talk to Ian then inform Mickey as to the situation. He hated any sort of shit between him and Ian, and he especially hated it when Ian seemed worried.

Inhaling deeply, Ian started to cough and that seemed to make whatever he was going through worse. “Fuck,” he said tossing the lit cigarette to the ground. “I can’t even fucking smoke like a normal person.”

“When did you start smoking? Thought you’d quit way back.”

Still facing the street, he answered shortly. “Two minutes ago.”

“Oh.”

“Here,” he added passing the Marlboros to Mickey who recoiled at the offer.

“Ew, menthol, no way.”

Ian turned toward him, eyes wide and stormy, and Mickey in his moment of panic started gnawing on his lip. Then as fast as the storm blew in it died out leaving Ian’s shoulders droopy and his face sad.

But the storm blew back in for one second when Robbie D. stuck his head out the door yelling about Mickey forgetting his pencil. Ignoring the pimple faced punk, he stared at Ian, who frowned then leaned forward and kissed Mickey right on the lips.

On the corner of Broadway and 10th in the middle of the afternoon, in front of Robbie and anyone else who happened to be on the street. When he pulled back, Mickey could see on Ian’s face elation followed by doubt, then worry that he’d made a mistake. Mickey, himself, wasn’t sure which one he was feeling until a movement just behind Ian got his attention for a split second. Joe had stopped on his way to grab the grocery bags, and he was looking at Mickey like he had a secret message for him.

Mickey glanced back quickly at Ian, but his eyes were now downcast, so he looked back at Joe, whose eyes opened as wide as they could manage, and his head tilted in Ian’s direction twice. Mickey flicked his eyes around the street quickly, skimming past Joe, who had his hands on his hips now, before they settled on Ian.

 _Oh for fuck sake_ , he thought to himself then kissed Ian fully for all the world to see.

 

 

 

From his perch at the kitchen island, Ian watched Mickey through the sliding doors as he flipped their steaks on the grill. He closed the lid and set the tongs on the patio table before picking up his cigarette and puffing with gusto. His eyes closed as he tipped his head up toward the night sky to release the exhale.

In that instant, Ian missed smoking but an image of himself hacking out front of Broadway Market reminded him that, despite a valiant effort, he had never gotten the knack of smoking. Or drinking for that matter. His eyes still on the balcony and the man standing out there, he had to smile when Mickey snagged a beer bottle off the table and took a long swig, his throat moving with the liquid. Well, one of them had mastered both of those skills. How the guy made every vice so fucking sexy was beyond him. Probably because it was obvious how much pleasure he was getting out of the acts.

Returning his attention to the ripe tomato on the cutting board in front of him, Ian sliced into it while wondering why he couldn’t just bask in the pleasure of being 30 floors above Seattle in Mickey’s penthouse apartment. Instead, he was fretting about the events from early.

Mostly it was his drastic reaction to each little thing that had him worried. Was he seeing clearly or was he creating shit that wasn’t really there? Mickey was famous. He’d been famous forever, but coming out publicly last year had caused a tidal wave of press. Every media outlet wanted a part of that story. Sometimes to show the human side of the story, like Ian’s article that followed shortly after the concert at The Bourbon, sometimes to simply sell copies, and sometimes to be hurtful and poke at the rock star’s tender spot.

Ian found himself ashamed to be a journalist too often these days. While he’d believed, since high school, in delivering news that was honest and made a difference, he’d let his personal feelings interfere every time he’d written about Mickey. Going back through articles, even that original one that got him his first freelance gig with _Rolling Stone_ , it was plain to see that Ian was using the articles to deal with his feelings.

How had Gord never noticed? Or maybe he had and it was the love that Ian always felt while he was typing any words about Mickey that had made those articles so powerful. Even the article where he accused Mickey of being asleep at the wheel had come from his heart, his bruised broken heart. Nothing he’d ever written, for Mickey or anyone else, was about making money or selling copies. It was about connecting with people, so it made him livid when he saw sensationalist pieces about Mickey.

The screen on the patio doors slid open grabbing Ian’s attention. Mickey was balancing the plate of steak in one hand and his beer bottle in the other, grumbling mildly at the sticky screen door. Ian came around the island with the bowl of salad, taking the plate from Mickey’s hand and putting both items on the kitchen table. Then finishing Mickey’s beer before setting it down too.

He kissed Mickey long and hard, running his hand over his throat and up into his hair where it tightened until Mickey exhaled sharply.

“Steaks gonna get cold, man.”

“Don’t care.” He tugged a little harder on Mickey’s hair, so his head tipped back and Ian could get his teeth on his neck. “Twelve days.”

“I got blisters on my hand,” he mumbled and they both cracked up until Ian backed him into the nearest wall nearly dislodging some pastel abstract artwork. Randomly, Ian thought they should go shopping and decorate the place themselves rather than continue to live with someone else’s bad taste.

“Against a wall, Gallagher?” Mickey challenged him. His knee came up between Ian’s legs. “Gonna _fuck_ me?”

Linking their fingers, Ian slid them above Mickey’s head. He looked at how they threaded together, how they belonged like this. Mickey closed his fingertips around Ian’s knuckles.

“That what you want?” he returned the challenge, grinding himself into Mickey. “Me to fuck you?”

They were well on their way to getting off just by dry humping and talking about fucking. Ian doubted that after twelve days apart they were going to make it to any sort of penetration. It seemed unlikely they were going to even get their pants off.

Between the feel of their hands tangled together and the noises coming from their mouths, Ian actually wanted to fuck Mickey, good and hard, not make love to him in a bed. Images of bending him over and slamming into him were whizzing past his closed eyelids.

“Yes,” Mickey groaned. “Fuck.”

“God, me too.”

Ian released one of his hands, so he could free their erections, pushing away all the fabric that separated them. Coming together, they inhaled and Ian got his teeth back on Mickey’s neck. “Where would I fuck you?”

Mickey was letting out some deep moans that Ian knew meant he was close, really close.

“You want me to bend you over the table?” Ian suggested slipping his fingers between them and finding their slicked up tips, swirling his index finger over both of them. “Or just up against this wall?” He brought his wet finger to Mickey’s sexy bottom lip. Rubbing lightly, he smiled as Mickey basically whimpered. He kissed the love of his life one more time, long and hard, until they came.

“Maybe later.”

They grinned like idiots in love all the way to the bedroom where they changed into sweats before eating cold steak and laughing their asses off over a new animated comedy, _The Simpsons_.


	19. The Crossroads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Long distance relationships suck.

Ian had never spent so much time and money on coffee in his life, as he had since splitting his life between Seattle and LA. In Chicago growing up, they often had to reuse coffee grounds, and in LA he drank a lot of cups that had been sitting on his desk at work for too long, so he had never really thought of coffee as more than a shot of caffeine. Now he sat in coffee shops savoring espresso and cappuccinos like he was on the French Riviera or something. His siblings would love to rib him about this.

It was late Sunday afternoon, and he was at the Starbucks a few blocks from the penthouse Mickey had rented although Ian had visited basically every Starbucks in the city and had dragged Mickey to the original Pike Place Market location, so he could admire the detailed breasts on the mermaid in the logo. Ian had laughed his head off while ordering them two macchiatos. Mickey claimed to not be amused.

Today Ian was drinking coffee alone though, and this was becoming part of their routine as well. Mickey had to meet people to finalize details for the Alternative Nation concert, which would open in less than a month. Sometimes Ian went with him to meetings and tried to contribute, but most of the time, he wandered the marketplace along Broadway then got a table in Starbucks and worked on his articles.

He was on his second Americano and definitely feeling the effects. Chiding himself on being shit at drinking strong espresso, he jiggled his knee attempting to contain his nervous system which wanted to go for a two mile run or punch the shit out of a heavy bag. The newly purchased yellow pencil in his hand tapped against his notebook in time with his frantic leg.

Espresso and nagging doubts were a bad fucking combination. The problem was that he couldn’t really put his finger on what was bugging him. Did he doubt that Mickey loved him? No way. Did he think that Mickey would ever cheat on him with the long line of available men who kept showing up to his gigs? No way. So what was Ian’s problem?

Before he could get any further in his endless self-examination, he squinted into the sunlight streaming through the plate glass window. Mickey was jay-walking across the street toward the coffee shop. Shoulders back, hips forward, head tilted back slightly to release a cloud of smoke with that eternal cigarette lodged between his index and middle fingers, between the C and the K. And his guitar case over his shoulder. With his hair flowing freely, his tattooed arms exposed and his black jeans one size too small, another one of Ian’s teenage fantasies came to life.

Ian would have sighed like one of the endless groupies they encountered daily, except Mickey wasn’t alone. _Chad_ was walking beside him, red beanie still keeping his head nice and warm. Narrowing his eyes dangerously, Ian laser locked on the space between the two men. They didn’t appear to be touching, but it wouldn’t take much for the blond bimbo to brush up against Mickey.

The twitching in Ian’s eye started again, and the pencil almost snapped in two from the force of his tapping. Calm down, he ordered himself. He was too old, the setting too public and the situation too innocent for the level of ire that was coursing through Ian’s body.

But it felt almost like a breaking point. Like something needed to happen so that they could be diverted from their current path. He needed his baseball to be smacked again.

A wave of fear hit him. What if things were different and they went in a direction that didn’t include—no, he pushed his over-sized ceramic coffee mug away and stuffed his notebook in his messenger bag making his way out the front door.

He reached the street front just as Mickey and Chad stepped up onto the sidewalk. They were a third of a block away, and Mickey must have said something simply hysterical since Chad laughed his stupid face off using Mickey’s bicep as support because his hilarity threatened to knock him off his feet. Mickey seemed less enthused but smiled at the guy a little.

Ian pressed two fingers into his eyelid to stop the throb; he added extra pressure hoping a little pain would snap him out of his spiral, but then a third guy stopped directly in front of them, forming an awkward triangle. Their smiles faded quickly when they saw the camera in the man’s hand.

If Ian thought he was losing his shit before, this nearly forced his head to explode. The paparazzi taking pictures of some guy’s hand on Mickey’s arm then plastering it on the cover of every rag across North America.

No fucking way.

 

 

 

Mickey glanced briefly at Chad’s hand on his arm. He could see an awkward conversation in the near future. He’d been touched by a lot of hands over the years, but there were only two hands that he ever wanted touching him again, and they weren’t fucking Chad’s. But he would be working and travelling with the guy for the next few months, so he didn’t want any weirdness. Maybe Chad was just a touchy kind of guy, but when Mickey make a joke about some of the guys they were going to tour with being menopausal, the guy basically swooned. Chad was going to be a problem.

Before he could do anything though, Ian’s shiny hair and troubled face exited Starbucks. He looked stressed out and that spot in Mickey’s gut started to tweak at the idea of them not being okay. Chad was saying something, but Mickey was focused on Ian who was focused on someone else. Then a camera was shoved in his face, and he was blinded for a second by the flash.

Next thing he knew, Ian was standing between him and the paparazzi asshole. From his position behind Ian, Mickey could see him balance on his left foot and shape his hands into loose fists. Then he lowered his chin yelling about the five core principles of journalism. As he spit each word at the guy, his fisted hands raised a little higher.

Oh oh, Mickey thought, wondering how he could stop this train wreck before it happened. It was definitely fucking hot, and he wouldn’t mind seeing Ian lose his shit on the guy, then hopefully, take out the rest of his anger on Mickey. But Ian wasn’t going to feel better if he wailed on the dude.

When Chad laid his hand on Mickey’s shoulder in some attempt at calming him in the face of Ian’s behavior, he shrugged it off immediately hoping Ian didn’t notice. The redhead was too busy shoving his palm into the camera lens in his face to notice anything else, including the growing number of gawkers.

“You worried your boyfriend might be stepping out? _Ian_.”

Mickey could see Ian’s neck turning red just as his right hand shot out and the knuckles connected with the cartilage of the paparazzi’s Adam’s apple. The guy dropped to one knee and Ian grabbed this camera, snapping open the back and removing the roll of film.

Holding out the camera, Ian glared down at him. “Get a real fucking job.”

The crowded parted and Joe’s linebacker body appeared. He snagged the guy’s arm, helping him to his feet and carted him away.

“Ian?” Mickey said tentatively hoping to break him out of whatever trance he was in.

“Embarrassment to my profession.”

But Mickey wasn’t sure that Ian’s anger was really being generated by what the guy did for a living so much as how it shone a spotlight on the fact that Mickey’s profession was trying to destroy their relationship.

Chad was looking between them, and this seemed to set Ian off again. Running his hands over his hair, he groaned. “Sorry. Mick…sorry.” Then he slipped into he crowd, disappearing in the direction Joe had taken.

“Woah,” Chad said. “That was intense.”

Ignoring Chad completely, Mickey followed Ian, but his long legs were eating up the sidewalk, and he was nearly at the Jetta by the time Mickey made it through the crowd of onlookers. Joe was waiting by the car, probably kicking himself for not insisting he attach himself to Mickey 24/7, but the paparazzi guy was nowhere to be seen.

“Mickey,” Ian said when Mickey paused a few feet away. “I’m going to the apartment.”

“Okay, yeah, we could use a breather.” He took a few steps closer feeling like he was dealing with a wild animal who was about to either attack or skitter away.

“Alone.”

“Alone?” he repeated dumbly. That sounded to him like a recipe for disaster but try to tell Ian that. “What about the concert tonight?”

Ian turned his profile to Mickey, the softness of his lower lip and the tilt of his nose made him look so young. Like he would have looked back in high school if Mickey hadn’t been too scared to look.

“Just go without me. Please. You know everyone and don’t need me to help you decide if any of the bands are a fit for the tour.”

“No way.” Mickey shook his head and reached his hand out to Ian’s bicep, but knew instantly that it was a mistake. His hand was in the same spot as Chad’s hand had been, and Mickey knew Ian knew it.

“Yes. I need—to be alone for a bit.”

“But—”

Ian turned to Joe with a pleading look. “I can walk from here. Drive him.”

 

 

 

The bright red numbers on the digital clock beside the bed shone 11:11, and Ian squeezed his eyes shut against the reminder. When he’d told Mickey to go to the concert without him, he’d meant it. He didn’t want Mickey missing it, but Ian knew he’d be terrible company, that he had to work something out and being alone was what he needed. That had lasted about fifteen minutes.

Pacing the apartment tidying things that didn’t need tidying. Chopping up more tomatoes then throwing them in the trash because he wasn’t hungry. Trying to smoke a menthol Marlboro on the balcony but hacking like he’d been puffing for 50 years.

He’d stared long and hard at the Space Needle watching the sun set behind it. Seattle was beautiful. It lacked Chicago’s edge and LA’s desperation. It just felt comfortable. Until he remembered that it was trying to suck Mickey into its orbit, and he scowled at the Seattle icon before returning to the empty apartment. He just wanted Mickey home.

Now, five hours had passed and Ian was lying in bed trying not to freak out. He’d assumed Mickey would cut out early to get back home because he’d be as wrecked over this as Ian was, but it seemed that Mickey was fine. How could he be fine?

Ian grabbed Mickey’s pillow and pushed it into his face letting out a scream of frustration. The guy was going drive him crazy. This must be an obsession, Ian obsessed. He wished Mickey had a set of encyclopedias, so he could look up “obsession” and see if he had the symptoms.

Briefly, he considered calling Mandy to ask her if she thought he was obsessed—oh, no need, he laughed at himself, she’d labelled him obsessed since the 70's. Maybe he should call his brother, Lip. He’d know the scientific definition.

And the front door finally opened.

Ian squeezed the pillow to his chest as the air left his lungs in a swoosh.

“I’m fine, Joe, go ‘way.”

Whatever Joe said was lost between the entryway and the bedroom, but a moment later, the front door opened and closed once more. Mickey’s silhouette appeared in the bedroom doorway lit from behind by soft light of the two lamps Ian had left on in the living room, and Ian wanted to crawl across the bed to maul him. “Gall’ger?”

Drunk.

Ian squeezed his eyes closed, cursing himself. He’d done this.

“Sh, don’ wake my man.” It wasn’t at all quiet and neither was the fumbling that followed. He tried to empty his pockets, dropping what sounded like his keys on the hardwood floor. “Shit. Sh,” he reprimanded himself but gave up trying to pick them up when equilibrium obviously started to work against him and his hip smacked into the corner of dresser. “Ow.”

Ian watched him try to unbutton his shirt, slurring out curses as he tucked his chin into his chest to see why it wasn’t working. “Shirt’s ‘r dumb…naked…Ian…mad…”

Random words floated toward Ian, none of which made a sentence but together they made complete sense. Flipping the comforter off his legs, Ian crawled across the bed, kneeling at the edge and getting his drunk boyfriend’s full attention.

“Ian,” he sighed dropping his clumsy fingers from the buttons of his shirt.

“Come here.”

He walked straight into Ian’s arms resting his forehead on his bare shoulder. “’m sorry.”

“You don’t have anything to be sorry for,” he said quietly, finding the next button on Mickey’s shirt.

When he lifted his head to protest, Ian repeated more firmly, “You really don’t, Mickey. I’m the one who does. I freaked out and then stormed off.”

“After you _kapowed_ that guy,” he snickered lifting his hand to replay the throat punch. “ _Kapow_ ,” he repeated.

Ian felt a wave of pleasure at both the memory and Mickey’s obvious joy over it. Then a wave of remorse. He hoped whatever Joe said scared him enough to not report Ian to the cops.

“M’ pants too,” he gripped Ian’s arm for support. “Ian’s naked.”

Mickey’s hands started to explore every inch of that nakedness, while Ian started on the zipper of his jeans. Mickey tipped his hips forward trying to get Ian’s hands to rub against him. “Quit that.” Ian smiled. “You’re going to sleep.”

“Boo!” he yelled spittle landing on Ian’s cheek. “I’n be naked with Ian.”

“It’s late,” Ian explained patiently while sitting down so he could maneuver Mickey’s jeans over his hips, “you’re drunk,” he continued while Mickey applied pressure to his shoulders trying to get him closer to his task, “and I have an early flight,” he concluded while Mickey stumbled a bit in his attempt to untangle his feet from his clothes.

“S’ what?” he whined finally kicking it all out of his way. “’m horny.”

“Come on,” Ian said firmly, stepping off the bed and snagging his wrist. “Tylenol. Water. Sleep.”

With just enough light to not trip over anything, Ian led them to the main bathroom where he slid open the wide mirrored door of the medicine chest. Pushing aside some cold pills and a box of Band-aids, he found the pain reliever. Meanwhile, Mickey had suctioned himself to Ian’s back and was making a bunch of sexy slash obscene noises, and Ian was getting hard despite his attempts to take care of his drunk ass lover.

When his fingers tightened around both of Ian’s nipples and started twisting gently, Ian slammed the medicine chest door closed causing Mickey to jump a little. “You need water,” he said sternly and turned toward the bathroom door. Mickey came with him easily because he was still stuck to him like a high-quality fucking Band-aid.

By the time Ian was at the sink filling a glass with tap water, Mickey was grinding himself into Ian’s ass and trying to get his hand on Ian’s fully alert dick. “Stop it, you brat,” he chastised prying loose and twisting to give Mickey the pills sitting on the palm of Ian’s hand.

But he just stared at Ian, all half open eyes and messy hair, fully ignoring the two little pills. Instead, he opened his mouth in challenge, and Ian narrowed his eyes, lifting his palm higher. Mickey stuck his tongue out, draping it over his bottom lip. Ian considered taking the pills himself.

“Fine.”

Pinching the two little discs between his fingers, he touched them to Mickey’s tongue and it swept up against Ian’s fingers running along his skin and taking the pills with it. Ian blindly reached behind him to the cupboard for the glass of water, bringing it to Mickey’s lips while he continued to act like an infant.

As Mickey tried to lick away the drops that had spilled on his chin, Ian repeated the plan, “Pills, water, bed.”

“Bed,” Mickey repeated. “’m horny.”

Ian gulped the rest of the room temperature water himself. “Sleep,” he corrected and set the glass on the countertop.

“Mm-mh.” And Mickey disappeared down Ian’s legs. Before he could even comprehend what happened, his cock was in Mickey’s mouth. All of it.

“Fuck,” Ian spat following the warmth of his mouth with his hips. His elbow knocked the glass into the metal sink, and his knees started to weaken. “Jesus, what the hell?”

Grabbing a handful of hair, Ian pulled Mickey’s mouth off him, “Come on, you’re drunk. You need sleep.”

Wiping his wet chin with the back of his hand, he frowned up at Ian, “Need yer cock.”

Ian watched his resolve grow wings and fly out the window. “Ya, you do,” and he pushed his way back inside Mickey’s mouth. Both hands tightened in the wayward dark hair, and he used the grip to hold Mickey’s head steady while his hips thrust forward. Fingers gripped his thighs painfully sending shivers up his spine.

“Fuck,” he spat once more and pulled out. “Get up. It’s not your mouth I wanna come in.”

But Mickey was in no condition to stand without help, and Ian felt a moment of doubt. “Sleep,” he said but the word sounded more like an apology than a plan.

Hooking his hands around Ian’s forearms, he managed to stand then push away from Ian. “Ian don’ wanna fuck me,” he pouted, but Ian’s mouth was too dry to respond. Where was that glass of water? “Gon’ take care a m’self then.”

He backed away from Ian until his shoulder blades hit the stainless steel of the fridge door, and he pressed his upper body into the hard surface causing his back to arch and the muscles of his abdomen to lengthen. Ian’s eyes almost rolled into the back of his head. He would have sold his soul for a camera.

But then it got worse, Mickey shoved two fingers into his mouth and started sucking on them, while staring wantonly at Ian’s still moist cock.

“Fuck,” Ian repeated a third time, and Mickey removed his fingers from his mouth, his tongue slid out to lick his damn lips and his fingers disappeared from Ian’s view. “Don’t you dare.”

But he dared. His wet fingers reached behind his back, and he let out a long, harsh groan that Ian felt from the roots of his hair to the tips of toes. The muscles in Mickey’s forearm were straining, and his breathing was so loud Ian wondered if he’d be able to stay on his feet without Ian’s hands to hold him up.

With a hard shove against the edge of the cupboard, Ian closed the distance between them, and Mickey shut his eyes, pushing the back of his head into the fridge. As the palm of Ian’s hand covered Mickey’s throat and his fingers clenched around it, a tiny almost incoherent “Ian” escaped his lips.

Nearly coming undone himself, Ian ripped open the tiny drawer beside the fridge and thanked the universe for ensuring a tube of lubricant was available at his fingertips. It probably had more to do with the fact they couldn’t keep their hands off each other and lube got left lying around than any sort of divine intervention.

Flipping up the top, he pressed his lips to Mickey’s ear. “Pull your fingers out.” That caused another long, drawn out groan and Ian joined him this time. When Mickey’s fingers lightly touched his hand, Ian removed his lips from Mickey’s ear to squeeze out an obscene amount of gel, knowing that he wasn’t going to be holding back. Tossing the tube on the countertop, he returned his attention to Mickey’s neck where the pulse was going berserk.

“Stretch yourself good, Mick,” he ordered shoving his thumb into the underside of Mickey’s chin, so he’d be forced to look at Ian. Their eyes locked and the scent of whiskey filled Ian’s nose.

Mickey tried to nod his agreement, but he was slipping into semi-consciousness from lack of oxygen between Ian’s hand and the shallow breaths he was releasing.

Ian moved his hand to the back of Mickey’s neck, using it to tilt his head forward and down. “You want this?” he asked. They looked down at themselves, at their chests heaving, at Ian’s hand stroking lube up and down his shaft. Both of Mickey’s hands gripped Ian’s arms and he tried to lower himself to his knees. “No,” Ian said, “bed.”

“Can’t. M’ legs, Ian.” He sounded wrecked and Ian felt his own legs weaken, but his dick wasn’t going to settle for anything less than Mickey’s ass.

Running his hands over that ass, he stopped when he reached Mickey’s thighs and was able to bring them up to his hips. Responding immediately, Mickey circled his neck holding on tightly. With a little more shifting, Ian’s cock was free to slide between his ass cheeks, which got Mickey squirming trying to get Ian inside him.

“Bed.”

“No.”

“Why do you always fight me about doing this in bed?” he half laughed as the tip met Mickey’s hole and the ease with which it was going to slide in became obvious to them. “Fuck.”

More sexy shit was coming from Mickey’s mouth, and Ian had to make what was fast becoming a life or death decision. The knowledge that he had to leave Mickey at 4:00am to catch the early flight back to LA sealed the deal. “We’re doing this in the fucking bed. Hang on.”

Mickey was already mostly strangling Ian, so as long as Ian was able to make it to the bedroom, they would be able to finish this like civilized gay men, with Ian pounding the fuck out of him—in their bed.

As he expected, Mickey ignored all his attempts to wait until they were under the covers. He squirmed and fidgeted nearly connecting them more than once. If Ian hadn’t been trying to maneuver around furniture and door frames, he would have simply let him have his way.

Reminiscent of times past, Ian let out an internal hallelujah when he saw the king sized bed. “We made it,” he sighed into Mickey’s ear. Hearing this, Mickey released his hold and fell back onto the mattress, bouncing a little. The minute he landed though, he flipped himself over onto his elbows and knees.

Ian opened his mouth to demand that he turn over, but before the words formed around his tongue, Mickey stretched. Like a fucking cat. If he started purring, it wouldn’t have surprised Ian in the least.

“Fuck.”

Everything Ian needed was in front of him, waiting for him.

“I love you.”

Mickey might have replied, except that was the moment Ian drove into him, connecting them as intimately as two people can. A little piece of Ian wondered if it would ever be enough, but his body was working overtime to produce an orgasm that might kill him, so his brain mercifully shut up.

Burying his face in the tensed muscle at the base of Mickey’s neck, he snapped his hips. With each re-entry Mickey slipped closer and closer to the bed until he was lying prone under Ian’s weight, his cheek pressed to the mattress, his hands grabbing at the comforter twisted under him from Ian’s sleepless night.

Locking his fingers over Mickey’s, Ian used the leverage to make sure he was torturing Mickey with every thrust.

“I love you.”

Mickey’s fingers tightened between his.

“You ready to come?”

His fingers tightened again.

“Me too. Inside you.”

Ian dragged their linked hands under Mickey’s body, between the now damp blankets and his erection. When he started to fuck into his own palm, Ian shifted so he could slip his own palm to Mickey’s balls and squeeze gently.

And as the final step in his plan of attack, he whispered into Mickey’s ear. “Mine.”

 

 

 

A repetitive beeping noise was burrowing into Mickey’s brain, directly behind his left eyeball. Was someone drilling into his brain? A moment after it stopped, the sweetest sound he knew replaced the drilling.

“Hey, sleepyface,” Ian whispered into his ear. “I’m going to get up now. Why don’t you stay in bed and sleep?”

“Mhm,” he murmured around his dry mouth. Sleep sounded perfect, but something was off. His shoulder was starting to go numb from laying in this one position for hours, so he flipped over and got his face in Ian’s chest. “Sleep.”

Warm hands rubbed his back and he drifted off.

“I gotta get up, babe. I’ll call you tonight.”

“Tonight?” Mickey repeated, coming back to the surface but unable to put that into any context.

“My flight leaves soon, and I’m going to be late if I don’t get up now.”

Mickey’s eyes shot open. “No fucking way!”

Startled by the outburst, Ian frowned. “What?”

“You’re not going without me, Ian.”

They split apart, and Mickey swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Then laid down on his side again for second while the spinning world caught up with his intentions. “Fuck, what’d I drink, man?”

Ian was behind him, so he rolled to his back to watch him pull on his work outfit of khakis and button down. “Preppy,” he teased trying to sit up again. “Jesus, this has the smell of Jägermeister.”

Breathing deeply, he got himself to his feet and followed Ian into the bathroom where he was lining his toothbrush with paste. Watching him run it around his mouth and over his tongue was both intoxicating and gut churning. His mouth felt like an animal had died in it, but he was also a little unsure if whatever was left in his gut was going to remain there.

“Gimme my toothbrush, would you?”

Ian looked at him but said nothing, only handed over the toothbrush. Sitting down on the edge of the tub in defeat, he tried to clean his mouth, but the cold porcelain met his slightly tender ass and he yelped. “You fucked me good, huh?”

This got Ian out of whatever deep contemplation was plaguing him. He looked so upset that Mickey had to smile. “That ain’t a complaint.”

“But,” Ian bit his lip and blinked a couple times, “you don’t remember?”

Mickey stood up, dropped his toothbrush in the sink and walked into Ian’s arms. “Course I remember.”

“Thank god.”

“How could I forget you begging me for sex until I finally gave in?”

Ian laughed into his neck. “How indeed.”

He sagged against Ian’s chest a little, exhausted from brushing his teeth. “I gotta piss then throw some clothes on.”

“You gotta get back in bed,” Ian said turning Mickey toward the toilet. “I can get to the airport on my own.”

“No,” he yelled over his shoulder at Ian when he left him alone in the bathroom.

“Yes, I already called a cab,” he yelled back.

“That’s not how we do it, Ian.” He ran his hands under the faucet and flicked his fingers in the direction of the hand towel. “Fuck, I shouldn’t have gotten drunk. What was I thinking?”

Ian was dressed and checking the contents of his messenger bag, but he looked at Mickey. “What _were_ you thinking?” Ian asked him.

“That I didn’t want to be thinking.”

The front door buzzer sounded twice, and Ian walked out of the bedroom. Mickey stumbled after him trying to pull last night’s jeans on. “Please don’t go without me.”

“I’ll be right down,” Ian spoke into wall speaker then released the button. Draping his bag over his shoulder, he turned to Mickey. “I love you, and I’ll see you in less than two weeks.”

All the air deflated out of Mickey. He wanted to shake his head and drag Ian back to bed. The hangover was making him emotional, and he was having trouble processing everything, except the fact that Ian was leaving. “I hate this.”

Ian looked like how Mickey felt, but he simply pecked Mickey on the cheek before walking out the door. Mickey stared at the white door for ten seconds, then sprinted back to the bedroom. The button down he was wearing the previous night was on the floor at the foot of the bed. He reached down for it and felt the goddamn nausea hit him again, but he had no time to worry about it.

His keys were on the floor near the bedroom door. With them in hand, he flew out the front door stopping at the elevator bank to shove at the button while bracing a hand on the wall to stop the spinning. After one deep breath, the elevator dinged and he entered the car.

“Thank god.”

Getting his arms into the shirt, he watched the numbers lower so slowly that he felt like they might be standing still.

“Fuck.”

He started pacing the tiny space wondering if he might pass out.

“Come the fuck on.”

Exhausted from simple pacing, he hit the “G” button even though it was very clearly lit up.

“Oh my god.”

Chewing his lip, he tried to talk himself down from the edge. Hours later, the elevator doors open and he shot into the lobby, jogging past Hector, who was half asleep at the front desk. He was out the front door before the old doorman could even make the decision to open it for Mickey.

The rain was coming down so hard that Mickey had trouble seeing and was sure Ian’s cab was long gone. He stood in the downpour, soaked immediately, scanning the street. Only one car was out at 4 am on a shitty Monday morning. A Yellow Cab sat at the lights on the corner.

The light was still red and Mickey could see the cross section lights were still green, so he ran toward the intersection, his bare feet splashing in the puddles. Just as the light turned green, the passenger cab door opened and Ian got out.

Mickey stopped where he was, scrubbing rainwater out of his eyes, his chest wet where his shirt hung open, his toes curled in the freezing water. He was suddenly hyper-aware of his surroundings like time had slowed down. Ian pushed a hand into the cab’s door, then he jumped over the water building up along the curb and jogged toward Mickey, who was rooted to the spot watching Ian’s shirt soak through to his skin and water drip off his nose.

“Ian,” he said when he was roughly pulled forward and into arms that were still warm. He shivered a little from cold and exhaustion, wrapping his arms around Ian’s neck.

Their mouths opened the second they touched, and Mickey got more of Ian’s warmth. Pushing himself closer to the heat, he tried to get some breath into his body without ending the kiss. Ian’s arms tightened around his back, and Mickey stepped out of the puddle and up onto Ian’s loafers.

“What the hell?” Ian finally said into his mouth. “Get back inside before you get sick.”

“I’m g-going with y-you,” he said tightening his arms, so Ian couldn’t get away from him. “W-warm.”

By then the cab had backed up and was waiting along the curb. “You never listen,” Ian teased as he opened the door. “Get in.”

 

 

 

Ian watched Seattle disappear as the Airbus A320 flew into the rising sun. Below him were so many things that he’d never truly imagined would become fixtures in his life. The ferries on Puget Sound, the peaks of the Olympic mountains, a breathtaking skyline. And Mickey.

Somewhere below a Yellow Cab was on its way back to their apartment. Mickey slept most of the way to the airport, but his thigh had been pressed to Ian’s and his cheek had bumped lightly against Ian’s shoulder. They had been drenched by the time they’d gotten in the cab, and Ian had draped his jacket over Mickey’s shivering body.

They would be separated by a thousand miles for the next two weeks, but he felt a little better than he had on the flight to Seattle. It was just time that worked against him. When he was with Mickey, it was easier to remind himself that nothing could come between them, but when he was away from him, his eternal doubts started kicking in.

In less than a month, Mickey’s Alternative Nation was going to start touring the US stopping for only one or two days in a city before moving on.  The bands and performers would be setting up, performing and dismantling, then starting again the next day. There would be long travel days and late nights. It would take them two months to complete the circuit. Ian didn’t see a clear place for himself in the midst of all that.

He slammed the little cover over the window startling the elderly lady beside him. Offering an apologetic smile, he closed his eyes hoping he’d sleep the next three hours. He was taking a cab straight to the office and needed to be alert enough to write up his notes from his interview with Milli Vanilli on how they were coping with being outed.

They had garnered far more disdain and loathing than Mickey had the last year. It seemed that lying about your songs was more of a deal breaker with fans than lying about your sexuality. In fact, Ian was still waiting for the fallout to Mickey’s bold gesture. Minor comments happened in the media, but for the most part, no one seemed all that interested. The groups that might have gotten on some sort of anti-gay bandwagon were already on Mickey’s back from his decade of writing and performing music that corrupted America’s youth, and they remained far more interested in putting a stop to rock than to any other campaign they might conjure.

The flight attendant’s tray appeared in front of his face, and he took the offered glass of orange juice and small fruit cup. While he picked at the chunks of fruit, he figured Mickey should be tucked in bed by now, warm and drowsy, and he figured it was time to finally make a decision.


	20. The Good-bye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian finally learns to smoke a cigarette like Mickey.

Lou’s Gym was hotter, Ian suspected, than the seventh level of hell, but his need to release some tension into the side of a heavy bag was greater than his need to cool off. It was mid-afternoon on Tuesday, and he’d just spent the day in a foul mood.

Arriving at work late this morning after yet another mild earthquake, he’d stared at his phone wondering if Mickey was still sleeping, but before he could decide anything it rang and he answered it immediately. An hour later, he’d bitten the head off Todd, the receptionist, for transferring a random customer complaint to his desk. Todd had retaliated by laughing into the phone and calling him Little Red Riding Hood.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Ian had snapped.

“Ask your boyfriend.” Then he’d hung up with a click.

Ian turned his fist horizontal to the heavy bag and landed a double jab, imagining it was Todd’s face. Red fucking Riding Hood, my ass. Was that some kind of gay joke? Jab. Jab. Sweat was dripping from his face, and he had to wipe his eyes with the back of his forearm in order to see the bag.

After his hour long encounter with the disgruntled customer, Ian had once again stared at the phone on his desk willing it to ring. It hadn’t. In his desperation, he’d punched in Todd’s extension and asked if he’d missed any calls. Todd had laughed once more, offering to check if the Big Bad Wolf was on line two.

Breathing heavily, Ian bounced on his toes a little then rotated his torso and hips counter-clockwise, transferring his weight to his front foot. The impact of the right cross sent a shockwave to his shoulder, which felt so good, he threw two more before returning to the guard position. If Chad’s face had appeared in his mind, he wasn’t going to question it.

To keep himself from obsessing too much over the silent phone, he’d gone to Gord’s office to see if his boss was willing to discuss giving the underground music scene some print space in the magazine. They’d been round and round this topic the last few months, but Ian wasn’t letting it go. He sad down in the visitor chair in front of his boss’s desk and went over his campaign.

“We’re a rock magazine, Gallagher.” Gord had repeated for the millionth time over the last few months.

“I know, but we have to stay current.” Ian responded for the millionth time over the last few months.

“Current?” Gord tapped two Rolaids into the palm of his hand then dropped the plastic container into desk drawer. “Rock has been around since Ike Turner and Chuck Berry. Do you really think it’s going anywhere?”

Ian wondered if that was his future, popping endless chalky tablets in hopes of warding off an ulcer. “This version of rock is dying, Gord. Not rock itself. We need to follow its lead not try to corral it.”

“Look, your boyfriend is a real musician with a lot of pull in this industry, I’ll give you that. But I’m not sure he knows what he’s doing here. This new music sounds too messy and quite frankly depressing. Who wants to listen to that?” Gord leaned heavily into the back of his desk chair, releasing an almighty sigh. “God, I miss Chuck Berry.”

Ian started to rise from the chair. No sense beating a dead horse, he decided.

“Does this have something to do with the article in _Variety_?” Gord asked.

And if Ian were a hack writer, he would have thought that the cold hand of dread had just reached out to steal his breath, but at that moment he wasn’t even capable of thinking like a hack. “What article?” he asked, honestly not caring if Gord thought he was behaving like a 16-year-old girl in Science class watching a note being passed around about her boyfriend.

“Honest to God, Ian, you used to have your finger on the pulse, now I’m wondering if you even have a pulse,” he complained. “One track mind, kid.”

An hour later, he was at Lou’s letting his body run the show since his mind wasn’t doing him any favours. Keeping his left hand tucked into his chin, he threw his fist upwards in a rising arc ricocheting off the leather bag then bringing his elbow back into his side. Repeating it with his non-dominant hand, he imagined Gord’s face taking the heat of his uppercut, then felt bad and replaced it with Chad’s face, red beanie and all.

Or better yet, Ian wanted to use the fucker’s face who’d written the article about Mickey. The May edition of _Variety_ was currently in the backseat of the Camaro, and Ian was planning to burn it. A fucking exposé. That’s what hack writers like to call their pitiful attempts to uncover something shocking. A four-page spread of Mickey with every tramp from California to New York was hardly shocking—well, it was shocking to Ian but not because it was news worthy. The dipshit was trying to insinuate that Mickey couldn’t be gay if he let groupies drape themselves all over his half naked body.

Jab, jab, undercut. Sweat flew as fast as his fists until he was so winded that he had to bend over to catch his breath. Resting his sparring gloves on his thighs, he wondered where Mickey could be. Tuesday was more than half gone, and they hadn’t spoken. They always spoke on Tuesdays, ever since Mickey had written it into his calendar. They’d never missed a Tuesday, not since that first one.

He thought back to that Tuesday a lot since then. He had finished his staff meeting barely aware that he was in one, wondering the whole time if Mickey was really going to tell Ian that he loved him at some point that day. They hadn’t spoken about it since Mickey had written in the calendar, but Ian had basically counted the hours—minutes—as they passed.

Sitting down at his desk, he randomly picked up a file folder and opened it, hoping he would look like he was working but actually agonizing over how long he’d have to wait to hear from Mickey. The last week or so of his life had been like living on a cloud that he intended to never come down from. They’d spent almost every night together. Ian was certain he’d had more sex in the last 10 days than he had in his entire lifetime.

 _Buzz_.

He nearly knocked the phone off his desk answering it. Todd told him dryly to grab his basket because he had a visitor waiting for him. Resisting the temptation to stop in the men’s room to check his hair, he took the stairs down to the main floor reception area. Scanning the chairs, then hallway, he didn’t see anyone he was interested in talking to.

“He went outside,” Todd explained from the reception desk, smiling like he knew a secret, but Ian was too exhilarated to care. He practically jumped over the coffee table covered in old editions of _Rolling Stone_ to get to the revolving front doors. Then he tried to push the door faster through its circular motion that it was designed to go.

Eventually he spilled out onto the sidewalk, half blinded by the bright California sunshine. His chest was rising and falling in anticipation and he actually had butterflies in his gut. Holy shit, he was a lost fucking cause. This guy had so much power over him it was kind of scary.

But Ian couldn’t see how it could possibly be any other way. Mickey was leaning against his Harley Davidson Sportster, scuffed black boots tapping the edge of the curb. His Levi’s looked like they fit the way Levi’s should, and Ian made a mental note to find out because he was sure he’d never seen these pants on him. Ian kept a mental inventory of all of Mickey’s jeans.

It was, however, the light blue tank top that almost brought Ian to his knees. When they were at Mickey’s tonight, he was going to tear that tank top off Mickey and inhale it.

The sidewalk in front of Rolling Stone’s office building was starting to get crowded with the lunch time mob, and still Ian just stood outside the revolving door, staring, watching Mickey smoke his cigarette and watch Ian watching him. A couple of suits jostled Ian, complaining that he made a better wall than a door.

Mickey tipped his head a little encouraging Ian to come forward. When they were as close as two guys can get without raising a flag, Ian released the breath he thought he might have been holding since he woke up this morning. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

 “Hi.” That got a smile out of Mickey. “Just, um, stopping by to say hello?” Ian prompted. He wanted to hear it so fucking bad, but he also wanted to live in this moment as long as he could.

Mickey lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “How was your staff meeting?”

“The longest two hours of my entire life.”

Smiling again, Mickey dropped his smoke into the sewer and stood up. “Ian,” he said quietly, so Ian had to strain to hear.

“Yes?” His body felt like an elastic band ready to snap. He swallowed hard.

“I love you.”

 

 

Standing up straight, Ian rolled his shoulders feeling the burn from a tough workout. The walls of Lou’s place were covered in inspirational quotes, mostly from Muhammad Ali on striving to be the best. Ian had taken those quotes seriously. The guy was a legend and knew his shit. Squinting at the quote on the wall in front of him, he tried to read it without his glasses, stepping forward a little more.

_Work until your mind forgets and your body remembers._

He ripped open the Velcro on his right glove with his teeth hustling toward the changing room. Idiot, he chided himself tossing his gear into a duffel bag and stripping down. He’d let his brain run the show way too long.

 

 

 

“Thank you for everything, Gord,” Ian said from where he stood at his boss’s desk. “I want you to know how important this job has always been to me, not just for my career but for my sanity.”

“What the hell, Ian? This sounds like you’re leaving me.” The editor-in-chief leaned forward, resting his arms on the ink blotter that was covered in reminders. A glimpse into his hectic life.

“It is. Well, not good-bye just…I resign.”

“What? Why? Cause I won’t let you traipse around the country on your boyfriend’s coattails?”

Ian opened then closed his mouth. What could he say? Yes, that’s exactly what it meant, but Ian would have worded it a little different.

“Oh for chrissake, lemme think about it. I’ll let you know tomorrow if I’m letting you resign or not.” He pulled open the drawer where he kept his Rolaids, and Ian got his ass out of there.

 

 

 

The sun was just about lost in the horizon when Ian made his way to the balcony outside Mickey’s bedroom. He pulled his knees up to his chest, resting his arms across them and digging his heels into the edge of the outdoor love seat. Mickey loved to sit out here and stare at the Hollywood sign, especially at this time of night. Last time he’d been home, almost two months ago and around the time Ian had given up his own apartment, they’d sat together on the cushion Ian was curled up on and watched the sun set.

He’d asked Mickey why it meant so much to him.

“Because I didn’t have your face to keep me sane like I do now.”

Ian had pursed his lips, so Mickey could tuck the smoke between them long enough for Ian to inhale then sputter out an exhale.

“I can’t believe my boyfriend is shit at smoking.”

“I tried, believe me.”

“Yeah?”

“I saw this guy smoke once, nearly creamed my jeans.”

Mickey choked a little on his inhale. “Cream your jeans? Classy Gallagher.”

“It was the 70’s Mick.”

“Groovy.”

Ian rested his cheek on Mickey’s shoulder and watched him smoke. “I probably fell in love with you the first time I saw you smoke.” He watched Mickey tap the cigarette in the ashtray. “It didn’t hurt that you were shirtless.”

“And whipping out my dick for every delinquent on the South Side to see.”

“Best five seconds of my life.”

“That why you follow me to the can whenever I piss?”

“Shut up, I do not. Not _every_ time.”

Mickey lifted his arm around Ian’s shoulders, allowing Ian to snuggle closer. “So why do you love that sign so much?”

“Back in Chicago, I really thought this was Paradise City. Even when I realized that place doesn’t exist, looking at that sign reminded me to keep trying.”

Now Ian was sitting alone on the loveseat surrounded by Mickey’s LA life. He squinted at the giant white letters, imagining what Paradise City would actually look like. First and foremost, it would be a place where Mickey wasn’t allowed to wear clothes. From there, Ian figured it didn’t matter.

At 10:30 he decided to go to bed. The answering machine light wasn’t blinking, and he’d already tried the apartment in Seattle several times figuring if Mickey had forgotten it was Tuesday then hearing Ian’s voice might prompt his memory, but it went to the answering machine and Mickey’s abrupt request for his callers to “get on with it.” It wasn’t time yet to call Joe in Florida in a state of a panic. Tomorrow, he’d call in the army.

For tonight, he’d just pull the covers over his head and ignore the ridiculous part of his heart that seemed destined to cry over Mickey Milkovich.

 

 

 

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Pardon me, sir, but American Airlines has a strict policy against abusive behavior!”

“You don’t consider kidnapping abusive?”

“I assure you our mechanics are doing everything in their power to get us up in the air as soon as possible.”

“Well, I need a phone.”

“Please have a seat.” This time her voice cut through Mickey’s agitation. He didn’t want to get kicked off the plane.

“Fucking fine,” he mumbled and returned to his seat. In fucking coach.

Ignoring the other passengers, especially the ones who gawked at him like he’d literally walked off the cover of a magazine, he slouched into his seat. Thank god it was a window seat, so he could have some privacy.

If the plane didn’t get up in the air in the next half hour, it would officially be Wednesday before he got to Deronda Drive. As ridiculous as it was, he was determined to see Ian today. Even if it killed him or got someone else killed. He scowled at the flight attendant one more time, but ultimately, acknowledged that he’d get there when he got there. He couldn’t make the plane take off.

From the moment he’d slept through his alarm this morning, he’d had this shadow of doubt like a passenger sitting beside him. Today was the day he and Ian needed to solve some shit between them.

He’d tried Ian at work several times, but his phone was busy. The line eventually went to the dipshit receptionist, who was still chiding Mickey about his drunken phone calls. He’s told Mickey to leave a message because it was “the better to reach him with,” and Mickey had responded that his fist was the better to punch him with. A gleeful chuckle and a click were all Mickey got in return.

For the next hour, he’d tried Ian every few minutes until it was time to leave for a bunch of errands and appointments that he had zero ability to concentrate on.

On top of all this, Joe was in Florida for a few days on the pretense of helping Mandy with some shit around her house, but Mickey was on to them. Over the Christmas break, he’d been sure that Joe was doing some plumbing around Mandy’s place, but they weren’t giving anything up. So he’d had to leave for his errands alone.

The rain was spitting as usual, so he’d taken the Trans Am cursing every other driver on the road and cursing his decision to veto the temporary security driver that Joe wanted to hire. Mickey had scowled at the idea, sure Joe was suggesting that he’d lost the ability to not only protect himself but also drive a fucking car.

The morning and early afternoon had drug on until he’d stormed out of a planning session with their event coordinator, figuring on a good day, he wouldn’t be able to give less of a shit about the color of the fucking tents they were renting. Today wasn’t a good day.

He’d driven a little aimlessly trying to decide what to do and pulled into a Shell gas station to try Ian again. The _ding dong_ of the door opening got the clerk’s attention, and Mickey gave him a single challenging eyebrow as he ripped the tip off a Hot Rod packet. He hadn’t eaten all day and was feeling it.

After stuffing the meat stick in his mouth, he slapped a twenty on the counter demanding a “shit ton of change” and scooped up the coins heading toward the phone booth outside, but his face caught his attention as did his bare chest and the words “Lady Killer”.

What the fuck? He snatched up the magazine, flipping through until a series of pictures appeared. “Son of a bitchin’ hell fuck.”

The old dude behind the counter cleared his throat, and Mickey waved his fingers at him vaguely. Then decided the guy was equally responsible for this shit. “Well don’t sell this garbage in your establishment, buddy.” He waved the magazine in the air. “Don’t you know the five core principles of journalism?”

“No.”

Neither did Mickey. He’d been too busy talking his dick down from the arousing sight of Ian defending his honor to pay attention to the principles. “Well, it ain’t this rag.” Tossing the copy of _Variety_ at the clerk, he added, “Get more copies of _Rolling Stone,_ man.”

Ian hadn’t answered the phone. And now Mickey was locked in a steel tube that had been sitting on the tarmac for two hours, and all he could do was wait.

 

 

 

“Mickey?”

Light from the hallway arched across the bedsheets where they were tangled around Ian’s bare legs. He blinked against the brightness at the figure walking toward him.

“Hi, baby.”

Ian turned his head toward the clock.

11:51

“Tuesday,” he whispered sitting up a little and letting the bedsheet drop to reveal his naked chest. Mickey watched the material’s progress. “What are you doing here? Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. I slept through my alarm this morning. Must a turned it off in my sleep.” By now, he was standing at the side of the bed looking down at Ian.

“Oh.”

“Then I called you at work and it was busy. Your line went to Dickhead.”

Ian frowned. “I think he’s got some sort of Red Riding Hood kink.”

“Weird,” Mickey concluded and sat down on the bed. “Anyway, I had a bunch of shit to do, but got stuck in traffic. I’m fucking lost without Joe driving me around. Like a fucking old woman or something.”

Ian listened raptly to the rundown of Mickey’s day, his meetings and traffic, his discovery of the _Variety_ article.

“I fucking knew you’d see that magazine, so I drove straight to the airport. One seat left for LA, but I had to fucking run to catch it. You know how I feel about running. And sitting in goddamn coach.”

Ian slid his hand under Mickey’s where it rested on top of the sheet.

“How many OH MY GODS did you get on the plane?”

“Lost fucking count,” he grunted in disgust. “I can’t do this anymore, Ian.”

“Do what?” Ian sat straight up nearly bumping his face into Mickey’s. “Do what?”

“Jesus, calm down. As if,” he said. “I can’t be away from you.”

“Oh,” Ian breathed out. “Me either. That’s why I resigned today.”

Mickey dropped Ian’s hand and stood up. “Are you fucking kicking me? No fucking way.”

“It’s done, Mickey.”

“Then undone it,” he yelled making Ian smile. “What about the five fucking principles of journalism, Ian?”

Ian smiled even bigger. “Um, they don’t include staying at job that isn’t a good fit anymore.”

Mickey dropped down to the mattress with a huff, finding Ian’s hand. “Fuck. I was going to drop out of the tour.”

“Shit. No. I’m going with you on tour.”

“Ian, you—”

“It’s okay,” he interrupted. “More than okay. It’s right. You’ve…shaped my life, Mickey. All my major life decisions involved being near you. Actually, that’s the thing, they weren’t really decisions. Like based on any deep thinking. I followed my gut, well, my heart. My body.”

Ian kissed him once quickly. “I’ve done really well for myself, so I should probably thank you.”

“You’re fucking welcome.” Then they just looked at each other for a bit adjusting to the knowledge that they’d figured out how to make it through their first major obstacle as a couple.

Eventually though their bodies reminded them that they’d been apart for over a week, so Mickey climbed on top of Ian and kissed him soundly. Then turned to look at the clock drawing Ian’s attention to it as well.

11:56

“I’m hopelessly, completely, mind fuckingly in love with you,” Mickey announced. “And not just on Tuesdays, Ian. All seven days in fact.”

They kissed for a few minutes, savoring each other, until Mickey sat up to straddle Ian. With his knees tense around Ian’s waist, he grabbed the hem of his t-shirt intending to lift it over his head.

“Wait!” Ian yelped grabbing the hem and smoothing it back into place. “Slower.”

“Slower?” Mickey lifted his brows a little. “Like a striptease?”

“Oh god,” Ian muttered, eyes wide. “Yes.”

“I don’t know, Gallagher. You think you can handle that?” he asked coming to his knees and looking down at Ian.

“No, but it’s good to know what’ll kill you.”

He covered Ian’s hands where they were clenching Mickey’s jean covered thighs. The muscles along the front of his thighs tightened beneath Ian’s hands. “Yup, I’m going down.”

Mickey slowly slid them up his body until they reached his hips, which were tipping forward and backward, forward and backward, so subtly Ian thought he might be imagining it. But the smirk on Mickey’s face told another story.

Lifting the hem of his t-shirt an inch above his jeans, Mickey ran a finger over the pistol tattooed into his pelvic bone. Then his finger made a slow agonizing trip toward the button of his jeans and popped it open. Ian dug his thumbs into his hipbones wanting so badly to flip him on to his back and cover that body with his own, but he breathed through his nose and let Mickey continue.

The zipper was next and revealed a patch of dark hair. “Commando?” he asked liking that he was one step closer to his dream of living in a world where Mickey was always naked.

“Mm…I was distracted this morning.” He lifted the hem a little higher. “My boyfriend needed me.”

Ian looked up at his beautiful face, eyes shining in the dim light. He looked back at Ian then slowly lifted the shirt over his head tossing it on the floor. Ian’s fingers were itching to grab and rub and possess, but the show wasn’t over yet.

Mickey returned his hands to Ian’s guiding them to the front of his jeans and spreading the material enough to free Mickey’s erection. Bracing a hand on the carved wood of the headboard, he brought his hips close to Ian’s face offering himself up.

But only long enough for Ian to run his tongue along the length once. Before he could get his lips around the head, Mickey pulled away. “Nah,” he said. “Got something else in mind.”

“Tease. What do you have in mind?”

He shimmied down Ian’s body toward the foot of the bed, stopping briefly to run his tongue along Ian’s dick once. Then he stood, dropped his jeans to the floor and came around to the nightstand.

“We’re gonna make love, Ian.” Turning from the drawer he was looking through he added with a stern look, “In bed.”

No words could make him happier. He took the lube from Mickey’s hand and pulled him down beside him. Their heads rested on the pillow so close that Ian could peck his lips several times before the heat demanded more.

Ian’s tongue explored Mickey’s mouth in the same way his fingers prepared him, lovingly and thoroughly. Mickey panted slightly into his mouth and Ian rolled on top, hooking an arm behind his knee. He entered him slowly, pausing when they were fully connected to make eye contact. “I mindfuckingly love you and can’t wait to go on tour with you.”

Mickey tilted his hips a little to encourage Ian to start moving. “You’ll always be my number one groupie.”

After one deep kiss, Ian agreed. “I’ll fuck those other groupies up.”

They moved together in the quiet room. The moonlight shining in and the distant sounds of LA traffic mingling with their breathing. Eventually Mickey pushed Ian to his back, so he could lead them to the finish. They linked their fingers as Mickey made love to Ian.

Then he curled up in Ian’s arms, pulling them tight around his waist and pressing his back into Ian’s chest preparing to sleep the long ass day away. “You licking me, man?” he asked swatting at the tongue on his neck that was interfering with his sleep.

“No.”

“Are you sure? That feels like licking to me.”

“It’s more grooming, really.”

“Dork,” he said but burrowed in a little deeper. “Are we okay?”

Ian stopped his grooming. “We’re always okay. Just sometimes the situation is not okay. Sorry for being so…”

“Perfect?”

“Yup, that’s what I was going to say.”

“’so okay. I forgive you.” He could feel Ian laughing lightly behind him and sighed with contentment. As long as Ian was happy, he was happy. A few minutes later, Mickey was pretty sure Ian was still too wound up for sleep. “What?”

“We’re leaving LA? Are we selling this house? Where will we live after the tour?” The questions were hitting Mickey in the back of his head like soft bullets, and he decided to do something about them.

He patted Ian’s hip then pushed to sitting. “Get up, get dressed.”

“What? It’s almost 2:00. I gotta work in the morning.”

“You weren’t sleeping, man. ‘sides, you resigned, remember? Just call in sick.”

Mickey was standing by then, waving impatiently at Ian. “Come on.” He scurried around the room looking for his clothes, while Ian pulled sweat pants and a hoodie out of his closet. “Where we going, Mick?”

“To say good-bye.”

 

 

 

Mickey geared down when they reached the end of Deronda Drive, parking the Harley in front of a white stucco wall with an arched entryway. He’d tucked a blanket between them, and as they hopped off the bike, he told Ian to bring it along.

A nearly full moon gave them enough light to make their way hand in hand through the entry and along a well worn path passing sage shrub and heart leaf until they got their unobstructed view of the tip of Mount Lee and the 45-foot letters.

Spreading out the blanket, they sat down and admired the view. “You ever come up here?” Mickey asked.

“No,” Ian replied unsure why he had never been up here. He might have run into Mickey. “I’m more of a West Hollywood kind a guy.”

“Yeah, in those preppy clothes.”

Ian nudged him with his sneaker. “I’m going to start wearing red beanies.”

Giving Ian a side glance, Mickey could only see humor on his face. “Don’t you dare cover your hair,” he threatened laying his head in Ian’s lap and looking at the assortment of stars in the sky.

After a few minutes, Ian pushed some of Mickey’s unruly hair out of the way to see his face better. “You know the story of Hugh Hefner getting people together to restore the sign?”

“Nope. Hef never mentioned it.”

Ian frowned down at him. “I don’t even want to know.”

Winking at him, Mickey reached into his pocket for his smokes and lit one up. “I’ll take it to my grave.”

“You better.” Ian gave his nipple a pinch for good measure. “It was the first story I read in _Rolling Stone_ when I got here in 1978. Sorta inspired me to work my ass off to get hired by them. Wanted to write stories like that. Meet people like that. Talk to them.”

“You gonna miss that though? Following me around instead of following your fucking dream?” Mickey frowned up at him, smoke literally coming from his nose. How’d he do that, Ian wondered?

“I got some serious plans for your tour, Mick. I’m not just going to wear short shorts and rub your feet at the end of the day,” he said leaning back on his hands and watching the cigarette smoke rise into the night air.

“What? Then the deal’s off the table.”

“I’m going to chronicle the shit out of the tour,” Ian explained taking the smoke from Mickey’s hand. “I’ve no doubt that my articles will get syndicated across the country. People are about to be shook up by this music and my name is going to be attached to it.”

“Holy shit, Gallagher. Keep talking like that and I might cream my jeans.”

They snickered and Mickey took his smoke back. “So what about Hef?”

“He got a bunch of rich dudes to each pay to have a letter restored.”

“Yeah, like who?”

“Well, Alice Cooper fixed up the second “O”.”

“No shit? That’s cool.” Ian could see the sign take on even more meaning to Mickey. “I always liked him, you know.”

“Me too. My first major interview.” But Ian was distracted by the way Mickey left the smoke between his lips for a moment. “Were you born smoking?”

Mickey plucked the smoke from his lips, swiping his tongue over them.

“Teach me,” Ian said sitting up fully and reaching for the smoke.

Laughing Mickey, held it out of his reach. “Well, you don’t point your fingers like that. Gotta relax, man.” He demonstrated. “Make love to it.”

Ian narrowed his eyes but took the cigarette, closed his eyes and imagined it was Mickey. After a moment, he opened his eyes. “How was that?”

“Um,” Mickey sat up, getting his legs around Ian. “That’ll do. Just, uh, never do that in public.”

“Oh,” Ian smiled proud of himself. “Just for you? Like a private show.”

 “Yeah,” Mickey kissed him then shifted out of Ian’s lap. “Come on. Got one more thing to do before we leave this city behind.” Much to Ian’s surprise, he pulled a basic switchblade out of the front pocket of his jeans.

“Kill someone?”

Pulling Ian to his feet, he lead them to the path making his way toward a sycamore tree. Ian felt his chest tightened when Mickey jabbed the switchblade into the bark of the tree.

_What?_

But he was unable to formulate words as Mickey’s hand continued to move and the knife continued to cut into the tree trunk. Slowly, Ian’s feet moved over the dry earth until he was standing beside Mickey.

Carving the crude heart around their initials, Mickey dropped his arm from the tree and tilted his head to view it. “Not bad. Close enough to the original?”

“How—how do you know?” Ian stuttered in shock, wondering if embarrassment was going to take over the moment.

Mickey shrugged. “I went by the place the day after the party.”

“You did?”

“Sure, I wanted to see the spot again.”

“Why?” He anticipated both the joy and the sorrow the answer would bring.

“Feel connected to you one more time.” Mickey turned toward Ian. “Before I left.”

Yet again, Ian felt the black hole of sadness at what they’d missed simply because they were gay. “I wish you’d a taken me with you.”

“I fucking do too.” He kissed Ian hard, saying sorry with his mouth rather than his words. “But maybe this kind a thing is too much for a couple of teenagers. Maybe it needs some maturity to, fuck, keep an eye on it.”

Ian looked back at the letters, remembering how desperate and willing he’d been to please Mickey and nodded his agreement. Then he took the blade from Mickey’s hand and added _4eva_. Teenage girls didn’t get to hog all the romantic gestures.

Breathing deeply, he imagined the circle was complete, and he turned to Mickey with open arms.

Mickey walked into them and closed his eyes when he felt lips on his temple.

“I need some grooming, Ian.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just the epilogue remaining. See you Sunday.


	21. Come as You Are

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> EPILOGUE: COME AS YOU ARE (CHAPTERS 21-22)
> 
> "'Come as you are, as you were  
> As I want you to be" -- Nirvana

 

 

**Artwork created by Ashja at GallavichArt @ https://ashjashakti.tumblr.com**

 


	22. The Tour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy Birthday Ian

“Remember how high we were on your 16th birthday?”

Ian let his eyes shift from the amphitheater where Trent’s breathy groans about sexual connection were competing with the brute force power cords of his bassist. The tour was over half way through its concert dates, so Ian had heard Nine Inch Nails perform almost daily for the last month, and it actually amazed him that the singer could project so much angst every single show. He was definitely one of the show’s more memorable performances.

Today, they were at the Central Florida Fairgrounds in Orlando, and the weather was unseasonably mild. The summer heat had nearly brought the tour to a halt on more than one occasion, causing equipment malfunction as well as human malfunction. More than a few fights had broken out, one of them on stage between members of Jane’s Addiction over god knows what. Dave had just suddenly thrown his guitar into the audience and stormed off stage knocking over the stacks and ignoring Perry who was hot on his heels. They’d started wailing on each other backstage. When Perry returned to try to continue the show, Dave started body slamming him. By the end of that day, even Trent himself had threatened to quit when a cable had melted one minute into their performance.  

Ian had been there for it all, and his articles which were published in several magazines and newspapers across the country allowed an entire generation of music lovers to be there with them, through the good times and the bad. Ice-T and Body Count performing “Cop Killer” into a crowd of mostly suburban kids, and Gibby, frontman for Butthole Surfers, shooting blanks from shotgun into the same crowd. It was chaotic and invigorating and exactly what the country had been waiting for.

And then there was Mickey.

Ian could watch him up on stage from sun up to sun down, his intensity and artistry were so hard to explain, and he’d tried for years to capture it in print, but never more so than this summer. There were no words that Ian felt could capture the live experience of Mickey on stage. Sometimes there were bodies flying in the pit area, the excitement like an electrical charge. Other times, the audience was silenced by his achingly sincere voice reminding them that as fun as it might be to imagine yourself a rebel going against society’s expectations, it was also fucking scary.

Mickey had spoken out against homophobia through his music, which was hard enough, but he had also crossed a line musically, and that had some repercussions. It was obvious that the winds were changing in the rock world, and being a driving force for this alternative concert was seen by some of Mickey’s former buddies as a kind of betrayal, while some of the Seattle musicians were slow to come around to the fact that he was not just a performer but a real musician.

A punch in the arm jolted Ian out of his internal monologue, where he had spent so much of his summer. Thinking and writing about Alternative Nation, about the conflicts and camaraderie, but also about being in an openly gay relationship. It wasn’t like he and Mickey made out in front of everyone, but when you love someone and you are together a lot, you can’t just shut off intimacy because someone might not want to see you rest your hand on your lover’s hip, or have him use your shoulder as a pillow after a long performance, or just simply get close enough to have a private conversation when you’re surrounded by people all day every day.

“Earth to fucking Ian!”

He snatched the cigarette out of Mandy’s fingers and sucked on it, only mildly hacking. “Sorry, was thinking.”

“Well, duh.”

They were sitting on the top of an old wooden picnic table in the fairgrounds but outside the concert pavilion watching Lisa lead a group of younger kids through a round of Red Rover, which Ian had been roped into playing for most of the afternoon. He was fine with it. She was a spitfire like Mandy and entertaining as hell.

“Of course, I remember my birthday, Mandy. I’m surprised you do though,” he joked. She scowled at him then nodded.

“Yeah, I was definitely more fucked up than you, but you were pretty gone. Rambling on about the size of the universe.” They laughed at the memory of the two of them at Navy Pier trying to keep themselves from falling into Lake Michigan, while Iron Maiden performed for ChicagoFest.

“Music has definitely shaped my life.”

“Amen,” Mandy agreed then shot up to stand on the bench where their feet were resting. Joe was walking toward them, and the moment he was close enough, she leaped into his arms wrapping her legs around his waist. It looked to Ian like the impact barely registered on the walking mountain. Mandy gave him a quick kiss then cupped his face, her thumbs rubbing over his salt n pepper stubble.

Ian wondered what Mickey would do if he launched himself into his arms like Mandy. He was also walking toward them but had gotten sidetracked by Lisa who was pelting questions at him like a drill sergeant. Smiling down at her, he adjusted his Gibson, so it rested against his back then dug into his pocket for some change, which he handed over to his niece. Ian glanced at Mandy when she shot her daughter a fierce look, but Mickey pushed Lisa toward the food trucks.

Then he made his way toward Ian. His palm was absently rubbing against the black leather strap attached to his guitar. Ian had given it to him for his birthday, complete with mushy shit engraved into the leather. The same mushy shit Ian had also engraved into his own body.

“Gallagher.”

“Milkovich.”

Mickey smile at him. “Ready to go?”

It was Ian’s birthday today, so Mickey was taking the rest of the day off. He’d finished his set and spread the word that he’d be back tomorrow. Ian was definitely ready to go. Where? He had no idea, but it didn’t fucking matter to him.

They said a quick good-bye to Mandy, and Joe frowned, his face showing his conflict at letting Mickey out of his sight. “It’s gonna be okay.” Mickey patted his shoulder. “Separation anxiety gets easier the more time we’re apart.”

“I’ll help take his mind off it,” Mandy suggested.

“Ew, keep that shit to yourself.” Mickey scowled turning away from his sister and his bodyguard. Lisa was walking toward them with a triple decker ice cream cone melting halfway down her arm. Mickey gave her an approving nod as they made their way toward the parking lot pausing briefly at one of the tents to watch a dude getting his nipple pierced.

Ian couldn’t stop himself from shooting a look at Mickey nor could he stop his eyes from travelling to the wedge of skin on his chest that was exposed. Mickey lifted both eyebrows as high as they would go, and Ian shrugged helplessly.

Backing out of the tent, Mickey muttered, “I’ll think about it, Ian.”

Fifteen OH MY GODS later, they arrived at the tricked out travel van that had been as much their home the last month as the apartment in Seattle or the mansion in LA had ever been. Mickey tossed his guitar in the back and got behind the wheel. Before he put the van into reverse to get them out of the jam-packed parking lot, he stretched across the center console and kissed Ian. “Happy birthday, baby.”

That took a little longer than necessary, but when they broke apart, Ian asked, “So…where’s my present?” He looked behind them to the mini kitchen and bed. “I don’t see any gift wrapped packages, Mick.”

“You wanted a present?” Mickey looked surprised and then slightly guilty. “Sorry, man.”

Ian also went through a series of emotions ending in disappointment. “That’s okay. You’ve been busy and stuff.”

“Jesus, Ian, as if.”

Ian reached over and punched his arm. “Dick.”

“Damn it, now it’s not going to be a surprise.” He started backing out of the parking spot but stopped to grin at Ian.

“Oh,” Ian said stretching out the word. “Just what I wanted. Did you wrap it up?”

“Shit no, we haven’t had to wrap it up in months.”

Ian laughed, agreeing with that sentiment more than he could ever express. “Oh, did you have it pierced for me?”

Mickey hit the brake so hard Ian’s hand shot out to stop his forward motion. “Get that shit out of your head, Ian.”

“Yes, sir.” Ian nodded but his eyes were on Mickey’s groin. “I like it exactly as it is. Perfect.”

Mickey gave him a side eye. “It feels the same way about you.”

They’d pulled out to the main road and just enjoyed the quiet for a moment. “Where are we going?”

“Well, I figured we were fucking sick of people. It’s like we live with 30 guys and have 15,000 people over to our place every night. Fuck, whose idea was this concert?” He was trying to tap a smoke out of the pack, so Ian reached over to hold the wheel for him. “Thought we’d just be alone, you know? That okay?”

“You’re asking me if it’s okay that I have you all to myself tonight? Like as a real question?” Ian gaped at him.

“I just mean we ain’t going to a fancy restaurant or whatever.”

“I think I’ll be fine.” He smiled. His birthday was sounding perfect already. “Alone with Mickey’s dick.”

“Dork,” he smirked flicking ash out the window. “But, yeah, basically.”

After just a few minutes, he pulled off the main road onto a gravel one, passing through the Lawne Lake park gate toward the lake itself. “Mandy scoped out a spot for us,” he said as the van turned into an open glade giving them a view of the small lake covered in bright green lily pads.

“Wow,” Ian marveled. He’d never seen anything like that before.

“Shit, Mandy did good.”

They got out and Mickey sent Ian to the water’s edge to wait for him.  Watching the lily pads moving slightly in the water, he considered the choices he’d made and how well things have turned out. This moment felt perfect to him. No doubt the next few hours were going to be awesome, but this moment held the anticipation of those moments along with the bone deep contentment that he’d been feeling the last month.

Mickey’s arms came around him and squeezed. “You hungry, man? Mandy also made us like a picnic basket of shit.”

The sun was making its way toward the southern hemisphere, and they’d be immersed in darkness soon giving them privacy, but Ian turned to face Mickey figuring they should sneak in a little make out session before they moved on to whatever Mickey had in mind. He swooped down quickly to cover Mickey’s lips with his own, pressing into the softness, feeling him open slightly at the pressure allowing Ian entrance if he wanted it. Instead he pulled away and ran his lips along Mickey’s jaw to the spot behind his ear. It was so warm and smooth, he lingered before moving down his neck to the collarbone.

His fingers found the three remaining buttons on the front of Mickey’s shirt that needed opened, giving him access to the warm skin and firm muscle of Mickey’s back. Running his hands up and down, he eventually let them get where they wanted to go. Beneath the canvas of Mickey’s cargo pants.

The contact brought their lips back together, a little more forcefully than before. Their tongues rubbed against each other, and Ian felt breathless.

“Okay, Gallagher,” Mickey said pulling back just enough to get his words out. “Got shit to do before the main event.”

Ian removed his hands from Mickey’s pants. Slowly. Locking eyes and making promises with his look. “What shit?” he asked feeling some excitement flit around his body at the thought of Mickey picking something out for him.

“Come on.” Quiet music was coming from the travel van as he led Ian to the blanket he’d laid out. “Sit.”

Happily obeying, Ian watched him kneel in front of a small cooler and remove a few plastic containers filled with meat and cheese and cherry tomatoes. “Aw, my favorite.” Winking, Mickey held the container out to Ian, who selected two. “This is pretty fucking romantic, Mickey.”

“Ain’t seen nothing yet.”

He poured them each a glass of Merlot that made them grimace slightly when they tasted it.

Ian laughed. “We just need more practice.”

“Why? When beer exists,” Mickey shook his head, but Ian downed half of his glass intent on getting a buzz. They sat across from each other, legs bent into pretzels and knees touching. Occasionally, Mickey would pop a cherry tomato into Ian’s mouth then follow it with a kiss, but mostly they just ate in silence unwinding from their hectic lives.

“Ready for your present?”

“Gimme,” Ian said holding out his hand, while guzzling his second glass of wine.

“Woah, you’re gonna pass out before the night’s over.”

Ian disagreed. He was sure he could handle two glasses of wine. “I think wine might be my drink, Mick.”

Chuckling and raising doubtful eyebrows, Mickey took the wine glass out of Ian’s hand then made his way to the travel van, returning a minute later with a small wrapped box. Ian clapped his hands, and Mickey laughed. “You’re fucking drunk.”

“Am not.”

“Yeah, I wanna see you walk a straight line then I’ll give you your present.”

“Piece o’ cake,” he declared while getting to his feet. “Oh, did you get cake?”

“Just walk the line, Red.”

Ian placed one foot in front of the other, managing two impressively straight steps but stumbling just slightly on the third. “That was an accident. Won’t happen again.” But it did, two steps later.

Mickey was howling with laughter, practically bent at the waist. “Oh my fucking god, my boyfriend is such a goddamn lightweight.”

“Shut up. You couldn’t even drink half a glass. I at least drank two,” he snapped and stuck two fingers in Mickey’s face when he reached him.

Wiping his eyes, Mickey nodded. “Yeah, you wanna challenge me to a drinking contest?”

“Yes,” Ian said grandly, but bit his bottom lip as soon as the word left his mouth.

Walking over to the cooler, Mickey poured himself a full glass of wine, the red liquid nearly spilling over the rim. Maintaining eye contact with Ian, he finished the whole thing. Ian swallowed. He was fucked, but his pride wasn’t going to let him back down. Taking the glass from Mickey’s hand, he held it out for more wine. Mickey emptied the bottle into his glass.

For a second, he thought the game was going to have a premature ending, but Mickey grabbed a second bottle of red from the cooler. “Don’t worry, Gallagher, we got plenty,” he smirked.

Ian took a deep breath and gulped the wine. It hurt a bit going down, but he finished it, sputtering and nearly gagging.

“You got a red mustache, man. Matches your hair. Too bad mustaches are on the way out. Look hot.” Now they both howled, and Ian had to grab Mickey’s forearm to stay on his feet. “I think you had enough, baby. I don’t want you getting sick and shit.”

Ian looked up at those words, and into Mickey’s soft eyes. “I love you.” It was definitely slurred, but it was still clear enough for Mickey to hear.

He cupped Ian’s cheek with the palm of his hand. “Come on, present time.” They stumbled their way back down to the blanket, mostly because Ian was hanging on Mickey unsure how close the ground actually was to his knees.

“Ooof,” he said when his ass finally met the blanket. “Hard work.”

Mickey was chuckling. “Oh shit, this isn’t gonna end well.” He grabbed the bottle of wine and guzzled about half the bottle. “And I don’t wanna be sober for it.”

Watching his throat bob up and down as he drank, Ian felt his dick harden. “Oh,” he said looking down at the way his jeans were filling out. “I’m horny.”

The small gift box hit him in the chest drawing his attention from his dick. “My present!”

“Yeah, before you start stripping down, open it.”

He tore the blue metallic paper off the box and stared at the contents blankly. “Motorola MicroTac,” he read slowly not comprehending the words. He flipped the box over and a picture of what looked like a phone appeared. “A phone?”

“It’s a pocket cellular phone,” Mickey explained taking the box from him and opening it. He looked so excited that Ian smiled. More interested in Mickey’s happy face than the weird phone in his hand. “It’s the smallest, lightest phone on the market. Fits in your pocket.”

He got the little black phone out and offered it to Ian, who just stared at it. “See,” Mickey explained. “You gotta pull the little antenna thing out then flip the bottom open to talk.” He held it out again but this time up to Ian’s ear.

“That’s cool, Mickey.”

“Cool? It’s more than cool, dumbass,” he chided Ian.

“Okay. I love it Mickey. Thank you.”

“Ian,” he said getting Ian’s attention. “I have one too. It means that we can reach each other anywhere, anytime.”

“Oh,” Ian said trying to keep up. “Anywhere?”

“Anytime.”

“And it fits in my pocket?” He tried to stuff it in the front pocket of his jeans, but it wouldn’t fit so he laid back on the blanket and tried again. “Well look at that,” he marveled yet again, lifting his head from the blanket to see better. “That’s a phone in my pocket, Mick. I’m not just happy to see you.”

“So what’s that?” Mickey laughed, pointing to the left of the phone.

“Oh, that’s definitely me happy to see you.” They smiled at each other for the millionth time. “Thank you. I really do love it, and I’m going to call you every five minutes forever.”

“I figured.”

Ian pulled the phone out of his pocket and dropped it back in the box, then crooked his finger at Mickey. “Come down here so I can say thank you properly.”

Bracing himself on his hands, Mickey brought his mouth to Ian’s, and Ian yanked him down on top of his body, trapping him with his arms. He felt so good that Ian looped a leg around Mickey’s calf and shoved a hand into his hair. “Want you,” he moaned into Mickey’s mouth. “Bad.”

“Public.”

“Don’t care,” he pouted releasing Mickey’s hair to grab at his hips. Holding them in place, he jerked his pelvis against Mickey’s. “Want you.”

Tearing his mouth from Ian’s, Mickey panted. “Let’s go inside the van.”

“No,” Ian said definitively.

“No?” Mickey laughed but ended on a groan when Ian slid a finger between his ass cheeks.

“Gonna fuck you here.”

Sliding down Ian’s body so he no longer had access to his ass, Mickey tried to ignore the impulses that were now raging through his body. He wanted to lift Ian’s shirt and lick anything his tongue could reach. What could one lick hurt, he thought? Just one.

With the t-shirt material bunched up around Ian’s chest, he ran his tongue around Ian’s belly button.

“Oh, Mickey,” Ian moaned loudly much to Mickey’s dismay. “I love you.”

Fuck, he needed to get Ian in the van. This was gonna get out of control fast. He had no experience keeping them from having sex in inappropriate places. That was Ian’s territory. But apparently three glasses of Merlot and Ian was completely uninhibited, which unfortunately, had the effect of turning Mickey into a panting dog.

Ian was squirming and carrying on underneath him, and Mickey was trying desperately to stop licking the skin between his belly button and the top of his jeans, while his thumbs dug into the material holding his perfect fucking cock hostage.

After the tenth “Oh, Mickey,” he simply had to pop the button on Ian’s jeans. They hadn’t seen a soul since they got here. Probably no big deal if they engaged in a little more foreplay on the riverbank. What could happen?

Of course, popping the button led to sliding the zipper down a little, exposing both the wet spot on Ian’s jockey’s and the tattoo he’d gotten for Mickey’s birthday. _Free_. It was the title of Mickey’s new album and the gift that Mickey had said Ian always gave him. Now it was tattooed on Ian’s body as a reminder.

He dropped his forehead to Ian’s erection. “Fuck, I love you too, Ian, but we gotta go in the van before I give you a birthday blow job that I’m afraid will alert everyone for miles around.”

Rubbing his hands over Mickey’s hair, Ian soothed him with promises. “I swear I’ll be so quiet you won’t even know I’m here.” He mumbled a few “mhm’s” for added proof of this promise.

“Yeah, right.”

Mickey lifted his head to look at Ian. The sun was mostly gone and the moon was thankfully nowhere near full, but Ian’s pale skin and shiny hair were like lights in the night. His head was tipped back a little and his chest was moving fast. Aw, fuck.

He put his mouth on the material covering the tip of Ian’s dick, and Ian broke his promise, but Mickey needed to just taste him then he’d force Ian inside the van. Flipping the band of his jockey’s over the tip, Mickey moaned a little himself. Jesus, the guy had a seriously magnificent dick that deserved all the attention it could get. Mickey poked his tongue out and swiped it over the slit.

They both broke the promise that time. Fuck, uninhibited Ian was making this blow job something fucking else. Between hot fucking moans, he was telling Mickey exactly what to do with his cock. Mickey wanted to follow those instructions to the letter, but he was sure that he’d just heard a twig snap.

“We gotta go in, Ian.”

“Mhm.” Ian made this lie blatant by getting his hands inside his pants and spreading the material more fully. “There. Help you.”

Mickey felt like he might have actually fallen a little bit more in love with Ian in that moment, which wasn’t something he thought was even possible. Ian was probably right, who was gonna show up at this time of the night? Seemed perfectly logical.

He got his mouth around the head and sucked. And Ian became a fucking porn star. He accompanied his moaning with thrusts of his hips that brought his cock fully into Mickey’s mouth then out again, and Mickey fucking loved that, having Ian fucking into him was his kink.

Getting to his knees so he could brace himself properly, Mickey placed one hand on Ian’s chest twisting it into his t-shirt and Ian twisted one of his hands into Mickey’s hair, helping him keep it out of the way. It no longer mattered to either man if an entire troupe of bird watchers wandered out of the everglades.

Ian’s heart was thudding under his hand and his cock was pulsing in his mouth, and Mickey wanted to join him. He got a hand around his own cock and tried to pump it to the same rhythm that Ian was setting in his mouth. Fuck, he hoped that Ian was close because his own orgasm was coming at him like a freight train.

“Oh, Mickey,” Ian basically shouted to the entire Lawne Lake district. “I’m gonna come.”

Thank fucking god, Mickey wanted to shout but his mouth was full. He had in fact gotten the hang of swallowing and efficiently helped Ian finish, then went back to pumping his own cock until a memory formed in his mind.

He released his hold and shot up Ian’s body, landing on top of him. He kissed Ian passionately, mingling their tongues and their taste, breathing into him while grinding his erection against Ian’s softening one. A moment later he convulsed too.

They panted from the exertion and the overwhelming adrenaline coursing through their bodies. Mickey opened his eyes to check on his redhead and found tears in his eyes. “Mickey,” he whispered.

“I know, baby.” He pecked his lips once. “Let’s get you inside now.”

“Okay.”

He helped Ian inside because his giraffe legs were wobbly from the alcohol and Mickey’s mouth, then he grabbed all their stuff and locked the van door behind him.

Stripping off his clothes, Mickey looked at Ian sprawled on the double bed watching him. “What are you thinking about?”

Ian blinked. “My phone. Can I call you right now?”

“How about we do that in the morning?” He reached down for Ian’s jeans, pulling them over his hips and continuing to yank until they were over his feet. “Sit up. Take your shirt off.”

Once he managed to sit up, Ian refused to let Mickey touch his shirt until Mickey was straddling his hips. Then he lifted his arms above his head and they were naked. Ian started up his noisy appreciation of Mickey’s body this time.

“Beautiful,” he announced running his hands over his hips. “Sexy,” he declared running them up along his chest. “Gorgeous,” he concluded running them through Mickey’s hair.

He suddenly laid back against the pillow dropping his hands to Mickey’s thighs. “You used to look so tough, like a walking fuck you just waiting for the world to fight you. Then in LA all those years you were like a walking fuck me.” He paused to smile at Mickey. “An advertisement for sex with your slick hair and tight leather, all those rings.” He paused again and Mickey knew he was thinking about their first interview. “Pushing the world away while letting everyone manhandle you. Like you had no control over who you were.”

Mickey felt a little panic set in at Ian’s words. He knew that Ian knew him inside and out, but hearing it all coming from his inebriated boyfriend’s mouth was unnerving. “But now,” Ian stopped so he could pull Mickey down toward him.

“You better not be leading up to me looking soft,” he warned, hoping to derail this conversation. But he knew Ian inside and out, and he wasn’t a derailing kind of guy.

“Now, you’re just you.” He ran his hands over Mickey’s unruly hair. “Even your hair is free.”

They grinned at each other.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you as always for the love you leave here and on FB.  
> Ashja made this fic what it is because of her edits and I can't thank her enough. <3 (Nor Nic for knowing how to actually get the edits onto A03)  
> And I have never been able to thank my A03 buddies enough for putting up with me. I hope reading about Mickey and Ian living happily ever after and getting a cell phone finally is enough to make up for all my whining. Kudos!
> 
> Above all thanks to all the musicians whose music and stories I hijacked. ♡


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